They Lost Their Wolves
by Blue Cichlid
Summary: He came back wrong, dark ... changed. She reached the end of her patience for trying to make things work. In a deserted Winterfell, in the dead of the night, they found each other. Dark erotica.
1. Chapter 1

Warning: This is a dark, explicit work of erotica. The sex between the two leads is very much consensual, but there will be plenty of material that pushes boundaries. Read at your own risk: it will not be to all tastes

* * *

In the dead of winter dark things stalked the corridors of Winterfell.

Cold drafts blew even into the the warm chambers of Lady Sansa. She pulled a cloak around herself against them chill, but her mind was far away. She held a pile of documents in her lap. A crowned stag seemed to glare at Sansa from the top of the neat stack. She set that one aside. Below was a seven pointed star, and under that, a golden lion. Missives from her King, her Faith, and her husband.

The letter from Stannis had been brutally brief. The Lord of Casterly Rock has a wife, and her name is Sansa Stark Lannister. The King's pen strokes had been deeply engraved in the parchment. His writing was precise and hard, no wasted strokes. A bitter and angry man, she had been told.

The High Septon had sung a similar song. Reports held that the man was a tool of the Faith's establishment, put in place to purge the fanaticism of the High Sparrow. She had hoped … but: No annulment shall be granted without decisive proof of the lady's maidenhead. Vows were sworn between man and wife. In the eyes of the Seven, the marriage is binding.

She didn't know when she had lost her maidenhead, only that kind Maester Tarly had been unable to attest to her purity, even though she had wept and begged his as prettily as she knew how. It could have been a childhood fall, a hard day's riding, even a beating. A parting gift from Joffrey, tying her to the Lannisters forever.

She had not even broken the seal on the last one.

He was not unkind, little Lord Tyrion, she told herself hopelessly. Was it his pride that prevented him from letting me go? She remembered the months that they had lived together in the Red Keep. So many times she had lain next to him in their shared bed, wondering if this was the night that he would decide to make her his wife in truth. But he never did. The mockery of the couriers had bothered him, she had known that. He had his share of pride.

He means to make me his wife now. A raven had come from Greywater Watch. There was a party of knights and men-at-arms with Lannister banners travelling north up the Kingsroad. They had a septa travelling with them, and some lady's maids.

She could not hate Tyrion, but the idea of Casterly Rock … she had heard tell of the that mass of stone, near a hollowed out mountain. She had dreamed of those dark caverns and shafts, of stale air and windowless chambers. Would she die there, she wondered? Would she wither away in those sunless caves, forgotten by the world?

Petyr had not written. No letters had come from the Vale. But she knew his people were here, watching. He is biding his time. I won't go back to you Petyr. I am not yours. I'll go back to Tyrion first. At least all he wants is my body.

The walls were pressing in on her. It was late, and her eyes burned, but she knew she would have no sleep tonight. She put the letters away the bottom of the chest that held her neatly folded clothes, took a cloak from that same chest, and fled the confining chamber.

The halls of Winterfell were deserted. There could not be more than a few dozen people in the place, living in the chambers the Boltons had restored like ghosts haunting the memory of their former home. Most of the others who had sheltered here over the winter had left as the snows melted. They had deserted Winterfell like rats. Good riddance, she thought. Go to White Harbour, you cowards.

She stole past Bran's chambers, careful to make no sound. Her brother had warned her that there were dark things afoot in Winterfell, and she should take care. She had known what he meant. They all did, the surviving Stark children, although they did not dare to say it, even to each other. There is a monster here.

I don't care.

The castle had seemed like a refuge when she had come to it after the war. Now it had become a trap. Even if Bran lets me remain here in safety, she thought as she paced the dark halls, I cannot leave. Many lords would consider it only their duty to give Lord Lannister back his wayward wife. Others might quietly send her to the Vale in return for the Lord Protector's friendship. And would Bran let me stay? Her brother had become distant and strange. Sometimes Sansa imagined she saw more wit in the stable boy Hodor's eyes than those of the young Lord of the North.

There was nowhere else in the North where she could find sanctuary. Her only real friend was Jeyne, but the Lady of the Dreadfort had her own problems and Sansa would not prevail on her. If Bran had joined in her protests when Lord Manderly was named his regent, perhaps they might have had more success. Instead, all she had accomplished was to alienate the Manderlys. They had Rickon in White Harbour. They had the heir to the North. The oldest legitimate child of Eddard Stark was an inconvenience to be disposed of.

Sansa heard footsteps, the heavy tread of booted feet that echoed off the cold stone. _He's here._

She shrank back into a darkened alcove, raising her hood and pulling the wool cloak tight around herself. She scarcely dared to breathe. The fabric was scratchy against her cheek, and smelled of smoke from the hearth fires and the dye she had used to cover its stains. She was suddenly conscious of the thin linen bed gown she wore beneath it. She should be afraid, she thought. She was risking being caught out here half clad, alone in the darkness.

A derisive laugh threatened to burst out before she repressed it. _Afraid. I should be afraid. They would bury me alive in the Rock and make me birth Lannisters._ A sound escaped before she could clamp a hand over her mouth.

The steps stopped. Silence.

Out there, in the darkness, he was listening.

She held herself as still as a statute.

The footsteps came towards her. The pace was steady, unhurried. He was nearly beside her. He would see her if she moved. He would know she was there. She felt like her heart was shuddering in her chest, her breath fast with excitement.

Then he was passing her, walking directly down the center of the corridor, looking neither left nor right. She could hear the sound of leather creaking as he walked. His cloak fluttered behind him. He never seemed to feel the cold any more. She looked at his retreating back: dark hair, dark fabric. It was as if he vanished into the gloom at the end of the passageway.

Sansa gasped. Her heart was pounding. She looked back down the corridor. For a moment, she thought to flee back to her chambers and bolt the door. Instead, she found herself moving down the corridor, into the shadows.

Down a set of narrow stairs, and then another corridor. She found nothing. No one. But the leather hangings had been pushed aside from one of the doors outside. She eased the door open, shivering at the blast of icy air that seemed to go right through her cloak.

The maesters hoped spring would come soon, but the snows still lay deep in the north. Moonlight glittered on crystals where it had melted and refrozen. Icicles hung from the roof edge. The white expanse crossed the courtyard unmarred but for a single line of footprints. They went in the direction of Winterfell's small sept. She closed the door again, and pulled the hangings against the draft.

It took her only a few minutes to circle around to the sept by interior passages. She cracked open the heavy interior door, and looked in.

The sept was plain and small compared to the ones she had seen in the south. Seven carved masks were hung above unadorned alters. It was warm - when it had been installed the heating system had been extended here - and dark. Nobody used this space now except for Sansa, but she had happy memories of coming here with Lady Catelyn in the Long Summer. They used to light the candles—

The candles. She had left unlit candles on each alter. Where were they? Her eyes were drawn to the floor. There they were. They had been swept onto the floor, and were lying in broken fragments on the flagstones.

He was standing with his back to her, facing the altar of the mother. He was as still as a statute. Then she saw his shoulders shift. He seemed to be fiddling with something. Then he was still again. She heard a rush of liquid. A dark stream ran down the altar and puddled on the floor around his boots.

She pushed on the door, hard. It opened in a squeal of protesting hinges. He turned, still buttoning up his garments. His lip curled, and he let out a growl.

"What are you doing, Jon?


	2. Chapter 2

Jon had come back to them only a few short moons after the last battle at the Wall. He had no horse or baggage. One day he had simply appeared at the gates, and stood waiting. He had not even called out to the guards. Bran had let him in.

They had spoken in the Godswood, with the steam rising about them, and the heart tree's leafless white branches reaching into the sky over their heads like skeletal white fingers. Sansa had watched from a tower window, wondering what they were saying to each other. When Hodor carried Bran back inside, his face was grave. But he let Jon stay.

"Why? Why do you allow him to remain here?" she had demanded as she began to understand what Bran had allowed into Winterfell.

"Where else could he go?" Bran had replied. His eyes had already begun to grow vacant again, and Sansa knew he was preparing to slip out of his body. She didn't like to think where he was going, or how. Her little brother frightened her more than anyone.

In the days that followed, Sansa realized that Jon was watching her. She would see him on the top of the walls, a dark outline against the weak sunlight. Or she would turn to see the glimmer of eyes in the shadows. She found herself walking in the courtyards more often than had been her wont. And whenever she set foot out into the cold snow, he was there, never making any effort to approach her, never menacing, but always watching.

Something began to stir in her, under that relentless gaze. Sansa found herself lingering in front of the mirror in her chambers, taking more care in her dress. In the dark and cold of the winter, something was awakening in her. She was remembering the power of her beauty. Not as something with which to manipulate men she feared or needed. Nor as something to be exploited and used. Something her own.

But she bided her time, and hoped. Hoped that proof of her maidenhead would free her to seek a suitable match with a man she might want to take to her bed. A lord of the north, one who might be persuaded to challenge the Manderlys for political power. And then  
she could leave this dark castle full of the ghosts of her past and start over.

Maester Tarly had seemed her chance. He'd come from the Wall more than once to see Jon. Even if he always came away disappointed, he never gave up. And he seemed kind and gentle enough.

He'd flushed red as a goblet of Dornish Red when she told him what she required, but he agreed to do the necessary. It hadn't been unpleasant; not at all. She'd seated herself in Old Nan's rocker with a couple of pillows behind her back, and the skirt of her shift pushed up around her waist. Samwell had used the assistance of a bottle of sweet almond oil in his examination. He'd been quite professional and seemed more embarrassed than she was. But in hindsight she had suspected that the young man had a rather better knowledge of a woman's body that was quite proper for someone both a maester and a sworn brother of the Night's Watch. She could have done with a longer and more thorough examination from kind Maester Tarly.

The news hadn't been what she had hoped, but surely her word would be enough? She had told herself it would. Plenty of noblewomen lost their maidenheads to the saddle. She would get an annulment, and she could receive suitors offering an honourable match. The letters had gone south, and Sansa had returned to her duties managing the castle, and tried to put Jon's scrutiny from her mind.

One day, she was drinking a cup of water. It had been melted from ice and the fluid was so cold that it burned going down. A gasp escaped from her lips. There was a sound like a moan, and she looked up to find him there, not ten feet away. A desperate hunger twisted his face.

"What do you want, Jon?"

He let out a snort that was near contempt. "I'm the monster, the thing that came back wrong. Less man than wolf." His voice choked on that last word, and his hand moved in the air as if he was touching invisible fur. "What does fine Lady Stark care about what I want?"

The challenge hung between them. Sansa moistened her lips. "Tell me."

"Run, hide, rest, fight, flee." He paused, and his eyes ran across her body. "Fuck." His voice lingered on that word. "Cold flesh and the taste of blood on my lips. Life." His eyes burned. "I remember what it was like to feel."

"Do you remember Robb, or father, of Arya?" What are you? What drives you? She found herself waiting, breathlessly, for his answer.

"Every moment. All of it. They never came back."

"No," she said softly. "They never did." Her father's legs had kicked the ground as blood spurted from his neck. Robb was just a report from Tyrion's lips. Ayra not even that. Would things have been different if she had returned?

Jon shrugged. She couldn't read his expression. "Everyone dies," he said.

Sansa shivered, and stepped back. "You loved Arya with all your heart," she said. "Robb and father, too." She shook her head. "Stay away from me."

He had left the castle that hour, and stayed away all through a night so bitter that it would kill any ordinary man. At dawn she waited on the walls of Winterfell, the cold wind driving through her cloak. There was no sign of him. She felt the bitter taste of disappointment in her mouth.

But by noon the guards reported he was back. She had abandoned dignity and ran through the halls, her skirts billowing behind her. She ignore the stares of the few people she encountered.

In the courtyard, she found a trail of blood across the snow. It ended in the carcass of a deer which had been left in a bloody pile in front of the door to the kitchens. The creature's eyes were glassy and staring and its head lolled as a strange angle above the deep gash in its throat. Sansa stared at it, her chest heaving as she panted from the effort of her mad dash. "What …"

"Venison," Jon said behind her. She spun.

There was blood in his hair, blood on his hands, gore caked down his neck and staining the unbleached linen of his shirt. She couldn't see a weapon anywhere on him. He didn't even have a cloak.

"I thought that my fine Lady Stark might fancy fresh meat for her table," he said mockingly. "Everything dies."

"I'll leave Winterfell before the year is out," she told him. _One way or another._

His eyes narrowed.

"I told you to stay away from me," she said. "And wash yourself," she added. "You smell bad."

He glared at her. "Milady."

He walked within inches of her, heading in the direction of the hot pools, stripping off the soiled shirt as he went. He dropped it next to the carcass and walked away without a backward glance while she stared after him, furious.

Now Sansa stood in sept, facing him again. "I want …" she stopped. She thought of the escort, riding north to get her like a hunting party planning to bring home its own trussed up deer. Then she spoke in a rush before she could lose her nerve. "I want you to lay with me. I mean, I want to lay with you. As man and woman."

He stared at her. And did nothing but stare.

Long moments passed, and Sansa felt her resolve crumble. _What a stupid girl I am._ Joffrey's voice rang in her mind, and Cersei's too. She found tears welling up in her eyes.

"I'm sorry, it was a fool's thought," she said. "Pretend I didn't say it, if you have such kindness left." Awkward, she turned away. A tear of humiliation and frustration ran down her cheek. She started to walk back to the door back into the castle.

Then she felt hands grasp her shoulders and spin her around. She gasped in surprise, and as her lips parted, she felt his mouth on hers, his body pressed to hers. He was hard, all of him, and so strong that it was almost frightening, but his kiss was as gentle as a whisper. She twisted her arms around his neck, and sought his lips with greater force than he had used. Jon pushed her back until her shoulders were against the warm stone walls. One of his hands roughly grasped her breast through cloak and shift, and she let out a yelp of shock.

 _Hell, yes!_

She had a moment's gratitude to Bran the Builder for those walls, and the heat that kept the cold of winter out of the castle. Although she doubted he had intended to help his descendants make love to each other. _No, that's not the right word at all._

Fuck, she thought with a thrill, I'm going to _fuck_ Jon right here in the sept. In front of all the Seven. And her blood sang at the thought.


	3. Chapter 3

When Sansa had left her chamber she had only thrown a long wool cloak over her bedgown. Now Jon unfastened it and pulled it off her shoulders. He grinned as he looked down at her body, and Sansa felt herself shiver with excitement. The thin linen hid nothing, she knew.

He ran his fingernails along her collarbone and then down to graze the tops of her breasts before circling the nipples. She moaned.

"You like that?" His fingers moved across one nipple. When it hardened, he rolled the tip between thumb and forefinger. "Tell me."

She could feel the blush rising in her cheeks as a counterpoint to the heat between her legs. She couldn't … he didn't expect her to … she could _do_ these things, she didn't expect to have to _talk_ about them. _Particularly while they were happening._

He pinched the nipple. It hovered just on the edge of pain. The heat between her legs increased, and she found herself grinding her hips into his. "I said tell me," he said. It was a voice used to command, expectant of obedience.

"I … I … I," she stumbled over the words, "I like it. Very much."

He moved his hand to cup her breast. The other drifted lower, carressing hip and thigh. Sansa felt suddenly very aware of her body, all its curves, the narrowness of her waist and length of her limbs. _I am beautiful. I am desirable._ "Jon, I like this," she told him again.

A frown creased his brow.

Then she understood what he had been asking, what lay underneath that veneer of confidence. "I want you,"she told him and this time she did push her pelvis against his, feeling the hard bulge against her flesh.

He bent his head until his brow rested on her shoulder. She could feel his hot breath as he made a guttural sound. "Sansa," he gasped into her neck. Then she felt his lips on her skin, kissing so hard she gasped. He reached around to clutch at her buttocks, kneading the flesh with his strong grip. He parted her and ran his fingers down the divide.

His passion should have frightened her. Sansa had been taught to believe men were strong and women were weak. It isn't true, she thought. _I have brought him to this._

She pushed him away with her hands. He stepped back, breathing hard. The discarded cloak lay in a heap on the stones. She smiled at him, spread it out, reclined on it, and held out a hand in invitation.

In a heartbeat he was on her. He kissed her again. This time his tongue entered her mouth, playing with hers. His chest was crushed against hers. Lost in the feeling of their mouths meeting, Sansa didn't even notice him reaching for the hem of her bed gown until it was up her body and over her head. Her yell of protest was far too late.

"Damn it, Jon," she said from within the mass of fabric over her head. "Buttons. _Buttons_." Futility, she yanked at the inside-out sleeves that were stuck on her wrists.

"Why do you have buttons on your nightgown?" she heard him ask.

"Narrow sleeves look nice. It's fashionable. Can you help me out of here?"

There was a pause, then he let out a slow, evil, chuckle. "I could, but I won't. Great view. Looks _very_ nice."

With a gasp, she realised that she was naked from the armpits down, and completely pinned above. She tugged, then tried to find the hem of the garment to pull it back down. It was futile.

Breath sounded, close to her. She felt his exhale against her bare stomach. She gasped, and kicked out with one bare foot, but hit only air. Then she felt another breath. He was blowing on her inner thigh. There was a pause, while she continued to try to fight her way out of the nightgown with a bit less effort than she had put in before. Then she felt his lips between her breasts, the bare skin of his chest against her …

He was naked.

And then the reality of what she was doing suddenly crashed down on her.

 _"Whore,"_ Septa Mordane was shrieking in her mind. _"You are a whore. Disgusting. Ruined. No decent man will ever want you."_

In a convulsive movement, she tore the buttons loose. The shanks came free of the cloth in a series of pops, and she got herself herself free. The sept was dimly lit by moonlight streaming through the high windows, but she could see the carved masks of the seven over their altars looking down on her. _Whore_.

She grabbed the nightdown and held it against her chest.

"I can't," she said. "I can't. I'm sorry, Jon."

He glared at her, incredulous. The he struck the floor with his fist. "Damn. Damn you."

"I'm sorry. I just keep thinking about my septa … she was a bitch. A bitch, and I hate her. They put her head on a spike, and I shouldn't but I still hate her."

He shook his head, and started to get up.

"Wait," she said.

She found herself staring at him. She's seen naked men before; it was difficult to live in even a large castle in the northern winter without ending up at close quarters. And there had been Tyrion on her wedding night. She thought of how huge he had seen against his stunted legs, and remembered her fear.

That memory should have frightened her, but instead she found her worries vanishing. _This is nothing like that._

Jon's body was lean and nicely muscled without being over-large. At the junction of his thighs, his erection was prominent. He made no attempt to conceal it. Slowly she moved towards him. When he did did nothing, she gathered her courage and reached out her hand.

She touched his manhood with one fingertip. His gaze was fixed on her hand, and she could hear his breathing quicken, but he didn't move. She ran that one solitary finger down the length to graze the curls of pubic hair at its base. He shifted, and she pulled back. Then he went still again. Waiting.

She moistened her lips with her tongue. Her hand closed on him again.

It was firm under her fingers, but not like the muscles of his thighs and stomach. She loved the feel of the skin sliding with her fingers, moving against the resilience underneath. The ridge of a vein ran along the side. Fascinated, she probed lower in the shaft, pressing her thumb into the place where that round firm bit met softer flesh and harder bone. The underside was more sensitive, she realized and she stroked it, and there was a slight curve, leading to …

 _Oh._

Jon let out a hiss. He grabbed a handful of her hair. His fingers twisted close to her scalp. He didn't pull. There was no pain, but the warning was clear.

Sansa found her lips twisting into a smile. "Don't tell me what to do," she whispered in his ear. "Don't you dare." She continued her exploration.

All of his body was so hard, but this was soft. A little secret sack nestled in her palm. She jiggled it, feeling the two little orbs inside. They reminded her of a dish of jellyfish in soup that she had been served once in the Red Keep. She remembered that she had had nearly spit the strange little objects out. She ran her tongue across her lips, remembering how she had choked the things down, and the taste of the sweet, briny broth.

He relaxed his hold on her hair, and ran his fingers across the remains of her braid. He pulled the ribbon out and untangled the long strands until they lay across her shoulders and chest. One auburn lock twirled, then the end snuck down to brush one of her nipples. It was followed by his fingers, then his lips on one teat, his hand on the other. He lowered her onto her back, never losing his focus on her bosom.

Her back arched with pleasure. She let out a sound that was almost a whine to her own ears. When he pulled away, she was panting and aching. _I love this. I LOVE it._

He eased her down until she was on her back. She had a moment of disbelief when he looked up at him kneeling between her thighs, and she felt him shifting as he readied himself. _What am I doing? What would they all say if they could see me like this, after all the time so many people spent primping me out to be the perfect lady. All those hours I spent practicing music and fretting about my dress. Brushing my hair till it shone. And here I am spread out like a common whore._

She giggled. _I'm not the maiden made flesh. Not a future Queen. Not a doll, dressed by for the amusement of others. Just a woman._

The feeling of him entering her was strange, but there was little of the pain she had been bracing herself against. He moved slowly against her to start, his face creased with concentration, his lip caught between his teeth. She smiled at the sight, and he pushed harder, going deeper with each stroke. His breath came in gasps.

 _Like he's riding me._ It had never occurred to her that this might be hard labour for the man.

She ran her fingers across his back, loving the play of muscles, loving the dip in the small of his back and the way his buttocks clenched and flexed as he entered her _._ There were ridges running here and there across the skin, some so small as to barely be noticeable, others thick and long, cross-crossing each other. She paused as she realized what they were.

"You have so many scars."

He brought himself fully inside her and stopped. He eyes searched her face. There was a curl to his lip.

 _Had she said something wrong?_

"Get on your hands and knees."

 _"What?"_

"You looked like you were getting bored. I'll fuck you like a dog." He smirked at her, the scars down the side of his face puckering with the expression. "Trust me, you'll like it."

It should have sounded degrading, but he was so utterly matter of fact about it, like it was the most natural, unashamed thing in the world. She scrambled over until she was in position.

This was more difficult, she found, as he entered her again. He was less gentle this time. Her breasts wobbled with each thrust. Bracing herself against his thrusts was not easy. She found it better when she put her elbows and forearms down. The Sept floor was dirty. Small pieces of grit dug into her knees and her palms slid on the stone. He was grunting with the effort.

But the sensation – that was completely different. Better. Oh yes, definitely. Her breath caught with excitement. His manhood was slamming into the front of her passage now. Before had been pleasant enough, but this … she was out of control, in a way she had never felt before. He thrust quicker and harder. It was too much sensation. She—

Jon's movements stopped. His hands clutched at her back. There was a moment of stillness, and then he let out a long, slow, exhale. He pushed into her again, but more gently. Then the feeling of fullness inside her went away.

 _I want more._

"Is that … did you?" _I need better language. There is so much to learn,_ she thought. Then she remembered the letters in her chamber and the escort of fighting men coming to take her south. She wasn't afraid any more, not frustrated. But there was a single clear thought in her mind. _Hell no._

"Mmmm." He drew lazy circles on her back.

She shifted, and pulled free of him. A wet trickle ran down the inside of her thigh. She pulled her cloak closer and rolled herself in it. _Done_ , she thought.

"Sansa—" Jon's voice sounded broken. "I feel – I feel alive."

Then he was sobbing, curled in on himself like a child. She reached out to touch him and he shied away as if burned.

"I'm afraid," he said. "I don't know what to do."

He stood, put on his pants, buttoned the front. She could still smell the urine in the air. He shoved his feet into his boots. Shirtless, he threw open the door to the outside. The cold blast of wind hit her. He stepped outside, turned to look at her.

"I want you."

"You can't have me. They won't let you."

A look of fury crossed his face, but he closed the doors almost tenderly, leaving her alone wrapped in her cloak, the inside of her thighs slick.

 _Done,_ she thought in satisfaction, _and just beginning._ And she hugged herself in triumph.


	4. Chapter 4

Winterfell was near dead and abandoned, men said, and Addam Marbrand had been sent to plunder its last treasure.

Addam first sight of the castle was as a grey shadow through a sheet of falling snow. For all the difficulty of his orders, he was relieved to be here at last. It had been a long three moons on the road north. He was weary of nights sleeping rough in inns or tents, and the mounts and men both would well do with a period of rest before the journey back to Casterly Rock.

They had been fortunate in the weather. They days had been warmer than some and free from storms he had been told by the northerners. _Warmer than some_. He shivered at the thought. Although he had ensured his men were well-equipped for the journey and he had hired what local guides he could, he counted himself lucky that none of his party had been injured by frostbite or fallen ill on the way.

They were well-equipped to see to a noblewoman's comfort and security. Lord Tyrion had insisted on that point. Addam was accompanied by five other knights of the Westerlands, all of them well equipped and battle-hardened: Ser Tysen Kyndall, Ser Flemment Brax, Ser Kermit Greenfield, Ser Manfryd Yew, and Ser Martyn Yarwyck. They were accompanied by ten squires of fighting age between them – Addam had refused to allow page boys on the trip. Along with the noble-born, he had brought twenty five men-at-arms. With the three knights and ten men the Manderlys had sent, he had over fifty fighting men. Plenty to prevent any attack by Wildlings or bandits.

Of course, the opposition they faced would not only be raiders. He could not imagine that Lord Bran would be pleased to send his only surviving sister to the family which killed his father and conspired to end his line. Resolutely, Addam pushed that thought away. The girl was a Lannister by all the laws of gods and men, and the wife of his liege. She might weep and rail against marriage to the despised Imp, but she was noble-born and should know her duty.

As they came closer, he could see that the gates were closed. A solitary Stark banner hung defiantly from the walls, grey on white against the grey stones, white snowflakes blowing across it. There was no sign of life. A blast from a horn brought no response. Ser Paul Woolfield, the commander of the Manderly men, began to grouse about the lack of respect shown to the Regent's representatives, but Addam silenced him with a look.

Luckily, they did not need to attempt to breach the walls. Addam gestured the mounted troops to move ahead of the wagon convoy. By timing their arrival to coincide with a food shipment, he had prevented the Starks from simply refusing to open their gates. At least he hoped so. This was likely to be a very long and uncomfortable wait if they had to starve the Starks out.

"I'd not open my gates either, if it meant having the Imp between my legs." The comment came from one of the men behind him, and clearly carried further in the still air.

Addam turned and glared. He met downcast eyes from every face he scrutinized. "You are speaking about Lord and Lady Lannister," he snapped. "The next man who disrespects either will be disciplined."

"Just been a long trip, m'lord," a different voice said. The man shrugged. "We're all keen to get a look at Lady Lannister. They say she's a sweet thing, and pretty as a sunrise."

"Speak for yourself, man, I'm just hankering to get a look at a steaming cup of mulled wine," jibbed another. "You know what they say – the higher the birth, the prettier they're said to be, but it is all the same in the dar-." He stopped as Addam's eyes narrowed. "Well, it ain't always so."

"Blow the horn again." Addam ordered.

He had seen the girl with his own eyes, although he didn't care to share that with the men. He remembered a girl tall for her age, pretty, but pale and silent. At her wedding to Tyrion she had wept and spoke in a whisper: she had been no more than twelve years old. More a figure of pity than desire, he would have thought. But years had passed since that day, and she was no longer a child by any man's standard.

His musing was broken by a cry.

"Look," Ser Flemment shouted. "Against the trees … is that a _wolf_?"

The creature had silver-grey fur, and it looked like a heavy-set wolf, that much was true. But it was huge, as tall in the shoulder as a pony. It stood silent, watching them. Then it turned and ran back into the woods, vanishing amongst the tress like a dream.

"Something's happening," said Ser Tysen. "About time."

From the gates there came and thudding and a rattling of chains. Slowly, one of the huge wooden doors shifted and opened inwards. The hinges creaked. The party waited. A man walked across the space. The procedure was repeated on the other side, and then the gates stood open.

Addam gestured for the knights to take precedence with their House colors, following the squire who carried the Lion of Lannister, gold on red. As they started to move, he glanced back at the Stark banner. Then his gaze moved upwards, and his eyes widened.

A woman was standing on the walls, watching them. She was dressed all in black with a veil over her face and a cloak pulled close around her. She was as silent and still as the wolf had been, and for a moment Addam wondered if she was a statue. He glanced around to see if anyone else had noticed her. When he looked back up, she was gone.

The escort rode forward, and entered Winterfell.


	5. Chapter 5

Winterfell was ringed by not one but two vast curtain walls, with a moat in between them. The man who had opened the outer gates had vanished by the time they rode through, but the inner gates stood adjar. Pale sky was visible.

"Not a warm welcome," Addam commented to Ser Patrik.

The Manderly knight frowned. "They should at least be welcoming the representatives of Lord Bran's regent," he agreed. "But the boy is a cripple, and feebleminded to boot."

"That bodes ill for the future of the north."

"Too many weaklings and women," Patrik agreed. "With Lady Dustin, Lady Bolton, and Lady Thenn purporting to rule, the north needs a man in Winterfell. But Rickon Stark is being raised well in White Harbour. He's to wed Wylla Manderly soon." The man clearly had second thoughts about the implications of what he had said. "Of course, you need have no concerns about Lady Sansa," he hastened to add. "She's a dutiful woman, and will make a fine Lady to your Lord Tyrion. And those who have seen her say she is surpassingly fair; beautiful enough to drive a man to madness."

Then he looked over Addam's shoulder. "Oh Seven Hells," he groaned.

"A man who cannot control his own lusts is no more than a mad beast. Pray to the Seven, good Sers, to give you strength to master your base desires."

Addam forced himself to nod graciously. "Septa Gianna." He didn't even grit his teeth.

The Septa was a small woman, young for her authority in the Faith. She was clever, capable, sharp tongued, and in possession of an inexhaustible fount of opinions which she did not hesitate to share whether the listener had asked or not. _Where does she find the energy?_ Addam wondered. Even now, after hours of riding on top of months of hardship, she was bright-eyed and as immaculate as she would be in an Oldtown sept. She handled her horse expertly as she moved beside Addam and Patrik.

"Your lord should have taken Lady Sansa to White Harbour," Gianna said with a sniff. "This is no place for a girl of gentle birth."

"He attempted, but she refused to go."

Gianna gave Patrik a look that clearly indicated she thought him a fool. "How is a lady who has led the life she has to be expected to know what is in her own best interests? Of course she would fear leaving her childhood home after what she has suffered." Her glare swung to Addam. "And Ser Addam, I trust that the men who spoke out of turn will be firmly disciplined."

"Thank you for the suggestion, Septa," Addam answered. "I will consider the matter."

"I advise that you act, not consider. Loose talk leads to licentious thoughts. Men who speak about their desires for the female form spread such lusts in others like a plague. Purity of words leads to purity of thoughts." She pursed her lips. "Are we not planning to enter?" she asked. "You need to be moving your men forward, Ser Addam."

Addam had been about to do so. He gritted his teeth, and gave the order.

One of the Septa's most irritating traits was speaking of every man in the party as if he was on the verge of despoiling a village full of crofter's daughters. For Addam, nothing could be further from the truth. He has gone to Casterly Rock as a page when he was barely old enough to sit a horse, and he was well familiar with the dangers of beautiful women.

He remembered a day when he had been sent to deliver some documents to Joanna Lannister's chambers. The Lady of Casterly Rock had been preparing for an audience with some merchants from Lannisport who had a complaint about the harbour taxes. Addam had found her sitting in front of a mirror, painting her lips red. He had stood in the door watching her. She had been as beautiful as her daughter Cersei. Garbed in silk and clad in jewels, she was as radiant as the sun. He had stared, thinking himself unseen.

Then her head turned, and Addam found himself staring into the reflection of those emerald eyes. The red lips curled in amusement.

"Young Addam," she said. "Do you judge me vain?"

He had blushed and stuttered, seeing his face in the mirror go as red as his hair.

"A woman has many weapons," Lady Joanna said. "Sometimes the best one is her beauty. Men may be fools for a beautiful woman."

"I don't understand," Addam had told her. "Those merchants have a lot of money at stake. Surely they will be sensible."

Joanna had let out a peel of laughter, golden curls bouncing, teeth flashing white against the red of her lips. "You would think," she said.

He knew better than to doubt her. Joanna was subtle and perceptive, wise in every matter but her children. He had learned more about ruling from the Lady than her Lord.

"I'll never do that," he insisted. Joanna had laughed, but he had meant it, and he had renewed that vow in the years after Joanna's death, as he watched Jaime destroy himself for Cersei.

His own relationship with women had been straightforward. Addam had wed a daughter of a neighbouring house whom he had known most of his life. Janell had given him companionship and two sons, and he had mourned her when she had died of a fever several years into the Long Summer. Since then, he had known only occasional dalliance, always discrete, and usually professional. He preferred it that way.

The bridge over the moat angled upwards, and it proved icy. The party was forced to dismount to lead the horses up. As they passed the inner gates, Addam was surprised to see that someone had drawn wolves on the doors. They ranged from white to black, and there were three on each side, six in total. Half of the figures had been crossed out with a thick red line slashing from top to bottom: the white wolf, one of the greys, and the smallest. Addam found himself shivering at the sight.

In the yard, there was a small group gathered to meet them. There was no lady with red hair, nor was there a crippled boy in the group. A thin grey man stepped forward.

"I am Wyatt, my lords, septa." He bowed deeply. "I represent Lord Manderly, Regent of the North. I have been told to bid you welcome in his name, and offer you guest right at Winterfell."

Behind him, there were some frowns, but the people of Winterfell remained silent. They were a motely lot, mostly old. Eyes followed the food wagons as they creaked in. In the middle of the group was one of the only young people: an enormously tall man.

The careful wording of the welcome did not escape Addam. He nodded acknowledgement. "By the grace of the Regent, we will take lodging for men and beasts, and you have our gratitude," he said. "But given our errand, we do not ask guest right unless it is freely given by Lord Bran." Lord Tyrion had given careful instructions in that regard, and Addam entirely agreed. The honour of the Lannisters had been damaged enough already; there must be no suggestion that they violated guest right to take a noble-born woman from her home by force.

The giant chuckled. "Hodor," he said. Wyatt looked uncomfortable.

"As you likely know, Lord Bran is a cripple. He only rarely choses to leave his chambers, and this has not been one of those days. And the Lady … her bed was found empty this morning. It did not appear to have been slept in. We have searched the great keep as best as we could, but … there is no sign of her. And she could be anywhere …" the man gestured about hopelessly at the warren of buildings that made up Winterfell.

"It seems your charge is hiding, Septa," Ser Patrik said with a glint in his eye.

Gianna simply shrugged, as if she had expected nothing different. "In that event, I shall supervise the packing of Lady Sansa's possessions," she announced. "Goodman Wyatt, please have someone direct me to the lady's chamber."

As they had been talking, members of the small group from Winterfell had begun to peel off in the direction of the food wagons. The carters were handing out loaves of black bread and apples.

"Septa, you shouldn't go about in Winterfell by yourself. I will escort you."

He directed Ser Flemment to see to the stabling of the horses, Ser Tysen to housing the common men in the guardhouse, and Ser Kermit to house the Knights, squires, and women in the guesthouse, which was apparently near the Godswood.

Addam eyed Winterfell with dismay. He had familiarized himself with the layout of the place from report long before his arrival, but the scale of Winterfell was still daunting. The Great Keep loomed over the yard. The quarters of the family would undoubtedly be there. That alone was a castle that would daunt a besieging force, and could house hundreds. Plenty of room for one woman to conceal herself. To his left was the cavernous Great Hall, to his right, the broken tower and the ruined First Keep. And there were dozens of lesser buildings. Sansa Stark could be anywhere.

Ser Patrik leaned close. He jerked his head in Septa Gianna's direction. "Do you honestly think there is anything in there scarier that her?" he asked.


	6. Chapter 6

Ser Patrik arranged a guide to Lady Sansa's chambers by the simple expedient of ordering Wyatt to provide for one. He produced a female so bound up in clothes that it was difficult to tell much about her other than that she was smallfolk by her speech. She led Addam, Gianna, and Patrik, into the cavernous Great Keep.

The lack of welcome from the family should have warned him of resistance, but he did not expect the first problem until their guide removed her cloak and hat to reveal a mass of red hair. They passed two more women in the hall. Both also had red hair. Gianna gave the girl escorting them a sharp look.

"Tell me, child," she said. "How do you come to have hair of that lovely shade of red?"

"Oh it's dye, milady," the girl answered. "Done this morning."

"I see. And how many other women in Winterfell have chosen to dye their hair on this particular day?"

The girl looked at the floor, but Addam could see a smirk on her lips. "Couldn't rightly say, milady," she answered. "It is a bit of a fashion, as it be. Milady."

 _Well, shit,_ thought Addam. The task of finding a reluctant young noblewoman in a giant, near abandoned castle had seemed difficult enough, but with every young woman in the place imitating her looks it had become that much more of a challenge. Even the sight of Septa Gianna's obvious chagrin as she reached the same conclusion he had didn't cheer him...

"Septa." Gianna's lips compressed into a tight line. "You address me as Septa. Do you know what happens to people who try to deceive a representative of the Faith?"

The girl raised her eyes to meet Gianna's. "I follow the Old Gods, Septa," she said. Her voice was cold and strong. "They answer no prayers, but they protect their own. I do not fear your Seven."

Gianna's face was calm. "Ser Addam, is it possible that this girl is Sansa Stark?"

Addam jumped. That possibility had not occurred to him. He searched his now hazy memories of the girl he had seen in the Red Keep. This girl was too young and too short.

"No, Septa," he said.

"Then, Ser Patrik, I would have you hold her." And Gianna drew a sharp bladed knife. In a flash she had a handful of the girl's hair in her fist and pulled her head back.

"Septa!"

She ignored Addam's protest. He hesitated, wanting to stop her physically, but reluctant to raise a hand to a woman of the cloth. Gianna didn't even look at him. She was intent on the girl.

"Where are your Old Gods now, child?" she asked.

"Lord Bran will –" the girl started.

Gianna ran the knife along her cheek, not hard enough to draw blood.

"Come out of his room? That would be most welcome," the septa purred.

"I survived the Dreadfort," the girl said. "I'm not afraid of you. And you cannot have our lady." She closed her eyes.

Gianna moved the knife up sharply before Addam could react. With a dull tearing sound, she cut through the handful of hair in her fist. She dropped it on the floor at the girl's feet. Then she took another handful.

Within minutes, it was done. The girl stared at the pile of locks, and tears puddled in her eyes. Ser Partrik released her arms. Slowly, she got down onto her knees, and gathered the fallen hair into her skirt.

"Tell your friends," Septa Gianna said, "that if Lady Sansa is not turned over to us immediately there will be a lot of shorn little sheep running around Winterfell."

Addam's heart sank, but he kept his face impassive. It would not do to show dissention in their ranks before the northerners. But he was cursing inside.

The girl, still on her knees, raised a pale face to glare at them all. "You think you are going to take the lady. You don't know what you are doing. The North Remembers."

"I am terrified," Gianna said, her voice flat. "If you would be so good as to direct us to the lady's chambers, little sheep?"

Silently, the girl pointed to a door at the end of the hall. Gianna swept past her, Patrik following in the Septa's wake. Addam stopped to help the girl to her feet.

"Truly, Lord Tyrion intends no harm to his Lady," he said. "His reputation is not entirely deserved - he is not a bad man." There was a great deal Addam did not wish to think on too much when it came to Lord Tyrion, but he did not intend to air Lannister business in front of a stranger. And Tyrion's intentions towards his wife seemed honourable enough. His instructions had been to extend every consideration to the lady. _Every one but leaving her in peace._

The girl's face was like ice. She held the pile of red hair in her skirts. Slowly, a smile crossed her lips. "Winter is a time for wolves," she said. "Not lions. You are all going to die."

Addam stared after her as she turned on her heel and walked away.

The door of Lady Sansa's chamber stood ajar. The window was open, and cold air blew in with a few flakes of snow. _She knows she isn't coming back here_ , thought Addam.

He left Septa Gianna in the hall with Ser Patrik to keep an eye on her. Addam wasn't sure if it was for her safety or that of the inhabitants of the castle. With his hand on the hilt of his sword, he entered Lady Sansa's private domaine.

The first impression he had was of order. The chamber was so tidy it was hard to imagine a person had lived there. By the door was a small table she obviously used for writing. There was a pile of parchment weighed down with a polished black stone, an eagle-feather quill pen; a pen-knife, two small pots for ink, and a magnifying glass. _She has weak eyesight_ , he thought, filing the information away. The only thing out of order were three letters that appeared to have been thrown across the surface. He looked at them. Two bore the broken seals of the king and the faith. The third, with a Lannister Lion in golden wax, was untouched. Addam sighed.

The neatness extended to the rest of the room. The precision of the furniture and ornaments spoke of a tightly controlled mind. Even the candles had been lined up with precision, the melted wax trimmed away to leave clean cylinders. Addam had never seen a room like it.

Then he began to see that for all the room's neatness, it was a place of comfort and beauty. There was a cushioned chair by a hearth that contained nothing but ashes. Two chests that must have held clothes were inlaid with mother of pearl. The floor was covered with furs rather than rushes, and a bench by the window was upholstered with brocade in Stark colours.

Gingerly, he opened one of the chests. It was filled with gowns: mostly wool to serve against the cold, but some of fine silk. Where ever she was, she had gone without most of her wardrobe. He rummaged through it, trying not to disturb the carefully folded garments. No cloak. Still, it seemed unlikely that the lady had fled the castle in the middle of winter in at most a single gown and cloak.

The other chest proved to contain more delicate garments: slippers, nightgowns, undershifts, breastbands, and smallclothes. Addam closed the chest as quickly as possible as soon as he determined that it appeared full, but he couldn't help but notice the delicate embroidery of flowers on many of the items, or smell a whiff of scent. Lemons, he identified, and something sharp and spicy. Janell had favoured musk in her perfumes. He remembered how alluring it had been when he came to her chambers to do their duty, how the smell had made his breath quicken as much as the sight of his wife.

Finally, he found his eyes drawn to the lady's bed. He felt himself flush. _What am I doing, alone the chamber of a highborn girl, examining her bedding without permission?_ But he needed to see if what they had been told was true. There were thick curtains to keep back the cold from a sleeper. They had been drawn around the bed. Addam put a hand out, hesitated, then drew them back in a swift move.

Sansa Stark's bed was a warm little space piled high with furs. White sheeting had been pulled up over the pillows – the fabric had the sheen of silk. Almost against his will, Addam found himself reaching out to touch it. So soft, so impossibly luxurious, it felt after the long months of hardship to get here. The feathers of the pillow gave under his hand. He found himself breaking into a sweat. It had been some time since he had known the touch of a woman. He had a flash of what it might be like to sink into those furs and silks with a willing woman in his arms ...

He mentally shook himself. The bed appeared not to have been slept in, that much was true enough. He was about to turn away, when he became aware of an odour. It was sharp, acrid, and familiar. He tore back the furs to uncover the sheet.

Addam gasped. The sheet was smooth and unwrinkled, but the stain of a man's seed lay plain against the sheet. Below it, a single word had been written in red across the precious white fabric, covering the entirety of the bed, edge to edge. He touched the colour, and his fingers came away stained. He stared at them in disbelief. Ink, red ink. Still wet. And the word spelled out a warning:

 _Mine._


	7. Chapter 7

Wolves 7

The guesthouse, where nobles of the Westerlands party had established themselves, was beside the Godswood. Through the arched windows Addam could see leafless branches reaching up into the white sky. Snow lay heavy on the ground, but it was melting as fast as it fell. In places, the earth was bare and steam rose from the dark mud.

Addam turned away from the bleak sight.

They had spread a piece of parchment on the table in the common room. Ser Kermit had been tasked with scouting out the interior of the castle with the help of a few of the men-at-arms. Kermit had a meticulous mind and an uncanny memory for details. He was drawing a map of his findings.

Their task was less daunting than it might have seemed. Ramsey Bolton had rendered much of the keep uninhabitable: the master's tower and part of the First Keep had collapsed in the fire, the glass gardens were smashed, and many of the lesser buildings were roofless. In some places the system of hot water that coursed through the walls had been broached and the buildings were cold as ice. The places that had been rendered habitable by the Boltons and now the Starks were mostly in the south-east quadrant. That included the Great Keep, the sept and its surrounding gardens, and the Great Hall.

"We will isolate this area," he said, pointing. "Station guards in the courtyards here, here, and here, and on this bridge between the Great Keep and the Armory. We will clear the Keep room by room, then move on to the other buildings. All men are to work in pairs at all times, and to stay in sight of other teams. If you lose your partner, call for help immediately." He shot a look across the table at Gianna, who stood composed among the men.

Gianna met his glare. "You disapprove of my tactics."

"Tactics?" Addam said. " _Tactics?"_ The words fell into a sudden silence in the room. "Crone's light, septa, we have been in this castle less than an hour, and you shaved a girl's head. If you had planned to set everyone in Winterfell against us you could hardly have done it more effectively."

Gianna nodded. She looked around at the assembled men, at all the disapproving faces. "Aye," she said. "I did. And if we stayed a year, do you think these folks would warm to us? Or would they slaughter us in our beds? The northerners know that we mean business now." She looked at Addam, and her eyes were sharp. "And you know that we do not have the luxury of even a sennight."

Addam felt that fact as a weight. He had hoped his men did not. But he could see them shift. They knew. And although they did not love the septa, they respected strength and those who told the truth. These were men of Westeros in the Long Winter. They understood fear.

"The weather," he said. _I must admit it. The woman has me trapped._ "It has been in our favour longer than we had any right to expect. If it turns, we will be trapped here. Or somewhere on the road, which is even more dangerous. I do not intend to allow that to happen." _I have a responsibility to the men I have lead here, to safeguard their lives, as much as I have to bring my Lord back his wife._ "But our mission will not be made easier by unthinking brutality. We will do our job as quickly _and as diplomatically_ as we can."

"What have we seen so far, ser? No greeting from the family, the lady in hiding, and the servants actively trying to thwart us." Gianna made her derision clear. "How are we to search this great castle for a woman with red hair, and find her quickly, when every girl sports the same?"

"Septa, if ruthlessness was the only goal – we have fifty strong, skilled, fighting men. I have yet to see one here. I have thought on ways we could apply pressure. What I would do would not be called _tactics_. But I will not take those steps but as a last resort." Addam put steel into his voice, enunciating each word. "We will try other means first."

"Very well. But when we acquire Lady Lannister, she is my charge."

Addam misliked disliked? that, but he had no good grounds to argue, and with the septa's acquiescence and the men looking on, pushing back would be dangerous. "That is your purpose here, septa," he admitted.

Gianna's eyes gleamed with triumph, but she folded her hands, the picture of demure piety.

"Ser Addam, I have complete faith in your leadership. If I have overstepped, I regret that. I was just angered as at the resistance we have received." She looked around. "We have come all this way. Endured so many hardships." She let that settle into the minds of the men. "And our mission is right and good – that a man and his wife be reunited as the Seven intended."

"Be that as it may," Addam said. "We will treat the people of this castle with courtesy and respect. Septa, you will accompany me in our search."

They left Ser Martyn and several of the men at arms to guard their supplies while the bulk of their forces were engaged in the search. They saw nobody as they approached the Great Keep. The people of Winterfell had vanished like mice into holes.

Addam and Gianna began their sweep at the Lady's chambers, more of the men at their heels. Addam frowned at the door. He had managed to keep the state of the sheets from the septa. He had no idea what it meant, but there was no doubt in his mind that it was nothing good in any way, shape, or form. _What has happened here?_

Gianna was staring down the hall, her lips pursed.

"What is it, septa?" Addam asked.

She stormed off without answering him. He had to half-run, armour ginglingjingling, to keep up with her. _I am heir to Ashmark,_ he thought, peevish at the awareness that Gianna could not care less about that fact.

She stopped several doors down. There was a chalk drawing on the wall. It featured two wolves. Two … very intimate … wolves. The one on top was extremely well endowed. UnderneithUnderneath, the smaller wolf's eyes were closed and its tongue was hanging out in pleasure. Addam could feel his cheeks heating.

Gianna folded her arms across her chest.

"Probably some servants being rude," Addam said.

"I am not as stupid as you think I am, Ser Addam. Despite your efforts, I did manage to get a look at that bed while we were packing the lady's things earlier." She frowned. "It would seem the resistance of the Starks goes beyond a bit of insolence from the servants and slights from the family." She turned away. "What is done is done. We were tasked to bring the lady to Casterly Rock safely, we can hardly be blamed for the state she is in when we arrived here. That will be a matter for Lord Tyrion to address with his wife." She smiled. There was nothing pretty about it. "I doubt he will be pleased."

"Septa, I think you are rather missing the point," Addam told her. "What strikes you about that picture?"

She shrugged. "I don't know what medium they used, nor do I care to. It looks sticky. The artist has some talent, and they put time into the work, that much is clear. The shading is admirable, the line work very fine. In style it is reminiscent of the pillow book of the Black Pearl of Braavos. It is a pity that such talent is dedicated to rude, impure thoughts intended to insult those doing the work of the Seven. The artist should be whipped. Is there something else I should be concerned about?"

"Perhaps that it was not here an hour ago." Addam said.

The sudden pallor of her face was satisfying, he had to admit that to himself.

"Whoever did this is not a servant," he pushed home. "They are fast, and daring. They know the castle. They are not afraid of us. And they are angry about our mission." He waited a beat, but there was no response. He continued, satisfied that his point had been driven home. "I want you to stay close."

They found little in the Great Keep. There was a door which appeared to belong to young Lord Bran, but it was firmly locked. The giant from the courtyard stood watch. The only think he appeared to say was "Hodor" but his meaning was plain enough. He would not allow entry. Addam left a couple of men to watch for anyone leaving those chambers, and moved on.

Addam paired with Ser Tysen and Ser Kermit for a search of the other buildings. They planned to start at the cavernous Great Hall and work their way back. The Hall seemed the least likely target – the makeshift roof looked drafty, and Addam had no doubt that it would be bitterly cold inside.

The Great Hall more than lived up to its name. Addam forced open the doors with Tysen and Kermit, half a dozen of the men-at-arms at their backs. The common men were alert. There was no need to tell them that this was a dangerous place. Addam knew they were keen to be on their way. _They have more sense than those of us who bear spurs,_ Addam thought grimly.

The weight of steel in his hand was reassuring. It was a good blade: serviceable. House Marbrand had never possessed a Valerian steel blade. It did not have that distinction. But its men had never felt the lack when there was muscle to wield the sword and skill to guide it.

Winterfell was built on a grand scale, but this hall was the pinnacle. Bats wheeled in the air above tables that could seat hundreds. All of the benches were empty. At the end of the space, beams of sunlight shone down on the dais, motes of dust sparkling in the light. In the centre was the great chair where the Lords of the North (once the Kings of Winter) had presided over feats.

The seat was not empty.

There was a man sitting crossways in the chair, his booted feet slung over the arm. He was dark and rangy, and dressed in leathers. Scars marked one side of his face, and a shock of dark hair fell across his eyes. His eyes narrowed as he watched the westerlands party approaching. There was something strange in his dark eyes … something almost … animal.

"Well met, Ser," called Addam. The man's clothes were rough, but no commoner would sit thusly in the seat of the Lord.

The man's lips pulled back into something that was more snarl than smile. White teeth flashed.

"Might I have your name?"

"Jon. Jon Snow."

Addam stared. "Jon Snow is dead, I had heard tell."

The man blinked, full of slow insolence. "Yes," he said, lingering over the word. "Stabbed to death by the men of the Night's Watch. His brothers. His body put into the ice. His mind lost in his wolf. But they brought him back in fire. Slit the wolf's throat. Ripped the man's mind out. Forced it back into the dead body. Sent him into battle, the dead against the dead."

Addam opened and closed his mouth. He had heard dark rumours of what had happened at the Wall, but he had never thought they were true.

"What is it that you hope to achieve here, Ser Addam?" A woman's voice rang clear and cold through the hall. The man – if he was that – in the chair jerked bolt upright. Addam raised his eyes up to the source of the interruption.

It was the woman he had seen on the castle walls – or one dressed just like her, all in black with her face veiled. She stood on a balcony that ran the length of the hall. One gloved hand rested on the wooden rail. Even without an inch of skin showing, she was clearly graceful and delicate. The gown was fitted close around breasts, waist and hips, and it clung to her willowy frame.

Addam gave Snow a quick look. He had come upright in the chair, and he looked up at the woman like a starving dog looking at a haunch of meat. Addam shivered at the naked longing writ plain on his face.

"Lady Sansa, I presume," he said, bowing his head. "I am glad to see you are well. Your husband sends his regards. He looks forward to welcoming you to Casterly Rock."

She let out a peel of derisive laughter.

"Ser Addam, I was twelve years old when I was wed to Tyrion, whom you call my husband. I was a child, and a prisoner, in fear of violence to my person. Violence I had known on many, many occasions while I was in the custody of the Lannisters. As I recall, you were not yet at court when I was publicly stripped and beaten for my brother Robb's victory at Oxcross. But you must have heard the tale. Quite amusing, many of the courtiers found it. I assure you, that was not an isolated incident. Any oaths I swore were made in fear." The façade of calm shattered and her voice changed. It was full of desperation and rage, a cry that echoed off the rafters. "Those vows were not binding."

Ser Tysen and two of the men at arms were on the wide stairs near the door. Slowly, step-by-step, they eased their way up. Out of the corner of his eye, Addam could see Kermit moving towards the rear of the balcony, the end furthest from the doors. After a moment, he saw why. The small set of stairs were nearly invisible in the gloom. Near the point where they let out onto the floor, there was a small opening. A passageway. _That's her way out,_ he thought.

"And yet, you swore those oaths, Lady Lannister," Gianna said. "His Holiness the High Septon has attested to their validity. Now it is for you to submit to his will, and to your Lord and husband."

"I shall not."

"I was not asking your views. This is a matter of fact."

Sansa looked about the room, as if assessing each of their resolve. Even veiled, he could sense her gaze fall on him like a bright light.

"Ser Addam, what honour is there in what you are doing?" she demanded. "You must know the truth. No matter what Tyrion may say now, no matter what he wants …. There was a time when he was the one member of House Lannister who had some measure of kindness, for all that it did not come easily to him. The marriage was not consummated."

Addam felt his stomach do an uneasy roll. He had heard those rumours in the Red Keep in the months following their wedding. Courtiers had snickered and made japs about "the Imp's" manhood. He had doubted those rumours would have been tolerated if there had not been truth to them. He thought back on Tyrion's words. His lord had never expressly said the marriage was consummated. He had asked the High Septon to reject Lady Sansa's plea for an annulment, but there had been no time where he called the lady a liar.

"If you intend to lay hands on my person and drag me from my home by force, you will be committing a wrong that will not be forgotten. Not in the north. Not anywhere – I swear that. Would you taint the name of House Marbrand in the service of the Lannisters? They are good at getting others to do their dirty work. Think of the Freys."

"That was the black deed of Walder Frey and his spawn," Addam said. He gave the silent man on the lord's seat a quick glance. Snow was still staring up at Sansa. He was utterly, unnaturally, still.

"Was it?" Her voice was mocking. "Was it truly? Who benefited from that 'black deed'? No, the blood of my brother and my mother stains House Lannister as much as the Freys. The blood of my _father_."

"Your father—"

"Septa, be silent!" Addam snapped. "Lady Sansa. I understand your grievances about the past. But you said yourself that Lord Tyrion endeavoured to be kinder than his family. Please, would you at least come down and speak to us? We have letters-"

He was prepared for her to attempt to flee, but it was still a shock when she turned and sprinted down the balcony. With her long sleeves and full skirts suddenly whipping about her, she was like a dark bird taking flight.

 _A raven,_ Addam thought.

The men near the front ran after her, but she had an easy lead. She made it to the head of the tiny staircase and took the stairs two at a time.

The instant she was at the bottom, Kermit was on her. He grabbed her arm, swung her around. She stumbled. A small cry of pain rang out.

And then Snow was there.

Addam was already running across the floor, his sword drawn. But he was too far away.

Nobody should have been able to move that fast. Nothing human.

Valerian steel flashed. Armour and flesh split like ripe melon. Kermit went down, his hand still clutching at the woman's sleeve.

Addam closed the distance between himself and Snow. He swung. Their blades met. Addam nearly went to his knees with the shock of it. He readied himself for another blow.

The lady stood frozen, staring at them. The passageway was open behind her.

"Sansa," Snow's voice was soft. He didn't take his eyes off of Addam, but a smile touched his lips. It was almost … gentle. "Go."

She hesitated, then turned and fled into the dark of the passageway. The black seemed to swallow her. She was gone.

Addam swallowed. He could hear the chink of armour behind him as his men gathered.

Snow raised his blade.


	8. Chapter 8

The light streamed down into the empty hall. It warmed the wood of empty chairs and tables. It shone on the dark blood staining the floor around Kermit's corpse. It gleamed on steel.

There was a moment of silence, when all the men were still and the only sound in the hall was the soft breath of wind outside.

Addam watched Snow's eyes. He was scanning them, assessing the fighters arrayed against him. Two knights, six men at arms. Against one. It should be a hopeless fight. Snow had no fear in his gaze.

"She's not for you to take," Snow said. He licked his lips. "Not with all your fine fighting men and your bright steel. Live men. They die so easily." He jerked his head towards Kermit. "Melt like flakes of summer snow."

"He is an abomination," Gianna burst out from somewhere near the door. "He's one of the Stranger's devils. Kill him. Kill him now!"

 _Seven Hells,_ thought Addam.

Snow's eyes flicked to her, then back to Addam. There was a moment when something crossed the other man's face that might have been sympathetic pain.

And Snow moved.

He was on the nearest man-at-arms in a breath, through his defences in another. Before the echoes of clashing steel had finished ringing off the walls, the man was coughing blood onto the floor, and Snow had crossed blades with the next opponent.

Addam and Tysen were weighed down by chain and plate armour. They couldn't match Snow's speed.

The six men at arms were clad more lightly in boiled leather reinforced with iron studs. They were lighter on their feet than the knights, more mobile, more able to respond to an attack. More vulnerable. They moved in on mass, but as they closed on him, Snow scattered them like mice, thrusting and cutting with his sword, then dancing away before either of the knights could engage him. He was on a chair, then up on one of the long trestle tables. There were bodies on the floor.

Two of the men knocked the table over, but Snow jumped to another. His boots slid on the wood, and he crashed to the ground. Addam could hear his gasp of pain. _He isn't invulnerable_ , he thought.

He and Tysen exchanged looked. Addam pointed. Tysen nodded. The two knights worked their way around the outside of the room, one on either side. _Get him while he is distracted,_ thought Addam as he skirted one of the giant hearths.

Snow was fighting three of the men at arms at once. He was not only quick and strong, Addam thought. He was also clearly well trained. His footwork was good, and he left himself few moments of vulnerability when his defences were tested. He was hard pressed fighting three at once, but he was holding his own. Addam inwardly winced as another man went down. Three lost on their side, and Snow not yet bloodied.

Snow spun to find Addam in position behind him. Their eyes met. Addam held his sword lightly. Deceptively. Other fighters tended to underestimate him, he knew that. He was not an over-large man, nor was he obviously very strong, or fast. And he was well past the flush of his youth. His opponent looked him over, and moved to attack.

Snow almost died in that moment.

Jaime Lannister, Addam's boyhood friend, had been the greatest swordsman in Westeros before he lost his hand. They had sparred together all their lives. The finest teachers Lannister gold could buy had trained Addam alongside the Young Lion. They had spared a thousand times or more against the Mountain with his monstrous strength, and the Hound with his reach, cunning, and Addam had only a fraction of the skill that had once been Jaime's in his prime. But that was still enough to make Addam one of the best swordsmen in Westeros.

Snow went in fast and hard. Young, he trusted in his strength and speed. Addam had seen a thousand young knights make the same mistake. Snow had been well-trained and was experienced in combat. He would have been an excellent fighter even without the unnatural speed and strength. But he was still human. Still capable of making mistakes. And he was a young fighter, prone to a young man's overconfidence.

Snow anticipated what he thought was a feint.

It wasn't.

Addam's sword went through his defences like a knife through a ripe peach and sliced into his thigh below the chain mail. Only a sudden convulsive movement – a young man's reflexes – saved Snow from an injury that would have ended the fight then and there. He danced back, but he was favouring the leg and there was blood on Addam's blade.

Snow fled, running away from the doors in the direction of the dais with its great chair. There were shadows there. He cleared the ledge in a single bound and plunged into the darkness.

 _Another passageway. Damnit._

 _We'll lose him._

"Send for help and see to the wounded," Addam snapped at Tysen.

"The Septa already went," Tysen responded. "Addam, wait for the others!"

But Addam was already moving in pursuit, and Tysen's words were lost behind him. He vaulted onto the dais. The passageway was there, a dark rectangle, leading who knew where. Addam hesitated, took a breath, and entered.

At first he was blind after the light of the hall, but after a moment, distant glimmers of light appeared. The passageway was broad. This was no secret way like the secret tunnels of the Red Keep. It was a route for working people. Of course, thought Addam, in the long northern winters, the people of the castle would need ways about sheltered from the cold.

He moved forward cautiously. The walls soon opened up into what had clearly once been a kitchen. Broken pots littered tables, and a dim light came from the shaft above the firepit. There were tall shelves, tables, benches, chests. The corners of the kitchen were filled with shadows.

Three doorways lead away from the room. Addam hesitated, wondering which one to pick.

"I'm glad you came." Snow's voice seemed to echo in the deserted space. It was as if it came from everywhere at once.

"How so?" answered Addam. He paced slowly around the outsides of the light, blade in hand, looking for any sign of movement to betray where his adversary was lurking.

"Because it brought me something I wanted. Something …. sweet."

"It was you who left that … that … on the lady's bed." Addam felt his gorge rising. "Did you force yourself on her?"

An ugly laugh filled the room. "You can't rape the willing."

"So you came to your sister's bed …"

"Well," said Snow. "It isn't as if we are twins. But you need have no fear for Sansa. She came to me. Sorry to say that I don't think she cares too much for the idea of going back to her husband. And it wasn't in her bed. I was … paying my respects … in the sept at the time. Lucky her cloak was nice and thick. That floor is hard."

"What?"

"Well, a man can't just sit around."

Do you love her?" It was a throwaway, intended to keep the other man talking.

It had the opposite effect. There was a long silence. Addam continued to circle, looking into the shadows, waiting for an attack.

"I'm her dog." Snow's voice was more sad than bitter. "She's afraid and powerless. Gave her bastard half-brother a good thrust last night in the hopes I would fight to keep her."

Addam felt a wave of pity. "You don't have to," he said. "Lord Tyrion means his wife no harm. Why would he? She will be one of the greatest ladies of Westeros, and having her brings great standing to house Lannister. She will lack for nothing at Casterly Rock."

Only silence answered him, but that was encouragement enough.

"You have killed men, and that will not be forgotten, but you did it in defense of a lady. The Regent would show mercy, I am sure. Jon Snow, lay down your sword and I will speak on your behalf. This is a battle you cannot win."

"I haven't lost yet," Snow countered. "You have men down, and I am still fighting."

Addam hesitated an instant, as he determined a direction to the sound. _So that's where you are._ He forced himself to continue walking as if he was still ignorant, eyes scanning the periphery of the room.

"There are other women, Jon Snow," he said. "Just as beautiful, just as warm."

"I want her," came the whisper, echoing off stone and wood.

"Ser Addam!" There was a call from the direction of the passage to the Great Hall, and the sound of many booted feet. Somewhere, Addam could hear Gianna's voice.

"Here!" Addam called, relief flooding through him. "To me!"

In that moment of distraction, Snow fell on him from above. The shelves the man had been perched on top off crashed down. Pots shattered on the floor all about them as Addam desperately blocked the blows. He was nearly driven to his knees with the force of it.

 _I could die here. Now._

Addam's sword met Snow's once, then again. He was on the defensive, the wall close to his back.

His body felt the opening before he was consciously aware of it. Even as he parried, he moved his shield arm.

The edge of the heavy oak rim connected with Snow's skull.

The younger man went down hard.

Using his weight, Addam got his knee between Snow's shoulder blades, grabbed his sword arm and twisted it behind his back. Snow was groggy, but still struggling despite an injury that might have killed most men. He spasmed and nearly broke free. Addam felt the sweat trickling into his eyes as he used all his strength in the desperate battle to keep Snow down.

Then the room was filled with bodies. Two more sets of hands joined the struggle. Addam grabbed a handful of hair and slammed Snow's head into the floor with all his strength. Snow went still.

Addam collapsed onto his hands and knees, panting for each breath.

"Should we kill him?" Ser Tysen already had the blade in his hand ready to slit Snow's throat.

Addam shook his head. "Don't be a fool," he gasped out. He pulled himself to his feet. The men had to see he was strong, even now. "The bastard is our hostage." He looked around. "How many are hurt?"

"Three dead, including Kermit. One more man will likely die. Two are wounded."

Addam closed his eyes for a moment. _Six men injured or dead in less than ten minutes._ He took a breath, and opened them again.

"Send a man to Lord Bran's chambers, and tell him his brother has committed acts of violence against our men and his sister has instigated it. Tell him that if he does not meet with us, we will have no choice but to kill Jon Snow."


	9. Chapter 9

Chapter Nine

Brandon Stark, Lord of Winterfell, made Addam wait until morning for an audience.

They took no changes with their captive. A search of the armoury produced a stout box made from oak. Addam showed it to Snow. The man was bound and gagged, but his eyes were dark with fury.

"That's where you'll be spending the night," Addam told him. "Attempt to escape and I'll bury you in the same hole we laid the men you killed."

Snow glared, and struggled, but the bonds were strong. There would be no escape.

That night the snow fell thicker than any time on their journey. There were furs aplenty, and the fires roared in the hearths, but the party was subdued. Outside, the wind whistled, and the drifts piled ever higher.

In the small hours, while most of them slept fitfully, the most wounded of the men died. His body was cold before dawn. Tyrot, the man's name had been. He'd hailed from Lannisport, the son of a barrel-maker. That was good steady work. Addam didn't know why he hadn't followed his father into the trade. Now there was no more chance to find out. At daybreak, Addam dispatched a group of the men-at-arms, again, to the backbreaking work of digging a grave in the frozen ground. He watched them carry the body out on a plank, as scrap of burlap over the face.

He made his way to the Great Keep when the sun was up, declining any escort from his companions. _The Starks will either be reasonable or they won't._ If diplomacy did not carry the day, Addam had made other plans. The walk was difficult. Servants had already made pathways through the snow between the buildings, but it was still hard going to make their way through the new fall. _It will be harder going back south,_ Addam thought.

He found Bran's chambers: this time the door stood ajar. The giant who had guarded them was gone. Addam paused, took a breath, and walked through the door.

Bran's chambers were dimly light. Outside the window, one of the great icicles that decorated the walls of Winterfell wound its way to the ground. The weak sun was filtered through the ice into shades of blue and green. It felt like entering a snow-cave.

Where Lady Sansa's room had been orderly, this space was anything but. There were papers and strange devices on every available surface. The delicate skeleton of a cat was half wired together on a table – the other bones were laid out on a piece of muslin. Vessels of blown glass held mysterious substances. There were papers, and scrolls, and maps. A cyvasse set sat on the floor. Ink drawings were pinned to a board – they showed whales in the sea surrounded by ice floes, the shores of the Isle of the Faces, the spires of Oldtown. Furs were heaped on the bed. A another lot lay in a great pile by the fire.

"Ser Addam." The voice had the uncertain pitch of a lad new to manhood.

Brandon Stark was seated in a chair between the fire and a table piled high with books. He was a good looking lad, with the same high cheekbones, thick auburn hair, and pale skin as as had been noteworthy in his sister, and a depth to his chest and shoulders that spoke of a man's strength. With a rug thrown over his legs, he might have been any young squire from a good house, on the way to a promising future. That was, until one looked into his eyes. They were blue, shielded by long dark lashes, and almost unnaturally large. As Addam moved closer, he initially thought the boy's gaze was vacant. Then Bran blinked, and his gaze focused. There was a sudden sense of presence in the room.

Involuntarily, Addam took a half step back.

"Half a turn of the seasons have gone since anyone of Lannister blood has dared enter the walls of Winterfell," Bran said. "I might have hoped that more time would have passed before the lions would be so bold as to return. Eight thousand years seems right. Yet here you are."

"Lord Bran," Addam ducked his head in a show of respect. "I regret our intrusion."

"You _regret_ it? My brother is imprisoned, my sister threatened, and one of my people has lost her hair. Forgive me if I put little stock in your regrets."

Addam sighed. "I would like to resolve this matter without further bloodshed," he said. "I regret the insult done to the girl. The Septa was out of line. As to your brother, I am willing to release him to your custody and to your regent's justice." He paused. "If, that is, you abandon your defiance of the King's orders."

Bran's face twisted, and for a moment he looked very young. "You would make me chose between my brother's life and my sister's freedom."

"I do not wish to be indelicate, but …"

"Oh, I know what happened," Bran said. He shuddered. "I have travelled far, and gained gifts of sight you cannot imagine. Sometimes that brings knowledge one would very much rather not have." He coughed. "My brother and sister have not acted in accordance with the code of conduct I would have expected of them. _Very much_ not in accordance with the code. But I would not abandon them for that, if you left me a choice." He shook his head. "But it seems, Ser Addam, that you have carried the day. My sister is willing to go south with you, on the condition that Jon Snow is not harmed."

Addam let out a sigh of relief.

"You will have my word of honour," Bran continued, his voice clipped. His eyes were cold and angry. "That he will be kept secure and not released by the hand of any man or woman in Winterfell until the Regent orders otherwise."

Addam frowned. He had heard tales of the gifts of the Starks – that they commanded wolves as well as men. "He shall not be released by any act directed by you or yours, in any manner? And you will make all efforts to keep him secure? If you will not swear that, I will not return him to you."

Bran let out a breath, and Addam saw a flash of dashed hope in his eyes. His shoulders slumped. "No, he shall not be released by me or mine, in any manner, and he will be kept secure. I swear it."

It was victory, Addam supposed, but not one that brought him any pleasure. He'd never had a sister, but he could not imagine watching one ride away from her home, likely forever.

"We intend no harm to the lady," he said.

Bran's mouth crooked, despite the unshed tears in his eyes. "You may find that Sansa is more than capable of taking care of herself. The girl who left this castle in summer is not the one who returned here. But that is your concern. I do ask one boon. One of Sansa's childhood companions has asked to accompany her. Beth Cassels, a girl of good birth whose family has been in service to the Starks for many years."

"The girl will be welcome, and you have my word that she will be treated gently," Addam said. He hesitated, uncomfortable. "Lord Bran – we are ready to depart on short notice. With the weather …."

Bran looked stricken. "You mean to leave today."

"Yes. If we depart before noon, we can reach castle Cerwyn before sunset. It is deserted, but will give us shelter. From there, we can reach the Neck in three sennights, if the weather holds."

There was a silence.

"Lord Bran, I must ask … where is Lady Lannister?"

Bran hesistated, and the room seemed to dim. "The Godswood," he said at last. "You will find her in the Godswood."

"Thank you," said Addam. He bowed, and turned, preparing to leave.

"Ser Addam." Bran's voice rang out.

Addam turned back. The light seemed dimmer than ever: the blue and green light more prounounced. Bran's eyes were sharp.

"What would you have done if I had not agreed? What was your next plan? Would you have killed my brother?"

Addam sighed, but there was no point in equivocating. "Yes. I would have taken no pleasure in it, but … Yes, I would have killed him. And if you remained resistant, I would have seized the food supplies of Winterfell. Your people would be hard pressed to survive until the next convoy came through. I have been tasked by my liege to return his wife to him, and it is my duty to do so." He hesitated. "I am only following orders."

"Much evil has been done by men who utter those words." Bran was so white he looked almost bloodless. He glanced at Addam's surcoat, with the burning tree emblazoned on it. "I thought to be a knight once. My mother was a Tully of Riverrun, and I dreamed of the South, of Knighthood. My sister was to be Queen, and I dreamed of being a Kingsguard. I would have defended her with sword and lance." Bran gestured to his withered legs. "Jaime Lannister crippled me. Joffrey Lannister took my father's head. My sister Arya fled from Cersei Lannister and was lost. Tywin Lannister's plots lead my brother Robb to his death at the Red Wedding. Do not come here parroting Lannister orders. You may think the Starks are broken, but this is the north, in winter, when we are the strongest."

Bran did not move, but his voice rang out sure and clear across the room. "Addam Marbrand, man of the Lannisters, I lay a curse on you, by the power of the gods of the trees, and gods of the woods, and the gods of the stone. I curse you, and all those who aid you. I curse you waking, and sleeping, at work and at rest, on horseback and on foot, by water and by wheel, when you eat and when you sleep. May the winds of the north turn against you, may the ground fail under your feet, may the rivers you cross consume you, may your fires burn out. May you know no safety, no refuge, no peace, until my sister is free."

Acting almost without thought, Addam put his hand on the hilt of his sword. Bran gave him a look of contempt.

The pile of furs by the fire moved. Paws stretched out. A tail unfurled. Ears pricked. A jaw the length of a forearm turned. Lips pulled back to reveal white teeth.

Addam stared, stunned, at the wolf he had last seen outside the walls of Winterfell.

The beast got to its feet. Its head was near level to his own. A low growl rumbled from the massive chest.

Addam backed towards the door.

"Ser Addam." There was a smirk on Bran's face. "Send my regards to Lannisters."


	10. Chapter 10

The snow crunched under Addam's boots as he walked between the trees. It was a warm day by the standards of the north in winter, and some of the snow and ice was disappearing under the combination of the noon-day sun and the heat latent beneath the earth. In places, the ice had melted away from beneath, leaving a sheet of ice thin as paper suspended over a depression.

In a moment of whimsy in the midst of this dark place, he stepped on one and heard a satisfying crackle as it broke. He remembered doing the same as a boy in the Year of the False Spring. By the time the true spring had arrived, he thought, he had been at war, and a man.

The smell of sulphur was heavy in the air. He had seen the hot pools bubbling in a half-dozen courtyards already. The Godswood had one of the largest, he had been told. He passed a small one. Its water was pale turquoise. There were stones in the bottom visible through the haze of steam rising from the surface. He bent to touch the water. It was blood-heat, even with snows all around.

He walked deeper into the wood, leaving the sight of buildings behind. There was an ancient weirwood heart tree, he had been told. That was what he was looking for.

It wasn't difficult to find. The tree was far taller and greater than any other he had seen in the wood. Addam found himself staring in awe as he entered the clearing.

 _This is the heart of Winterfell,_ he thought. _Did the Ironborn or the Boltons believe they had destroyed it? That was just stones and mortar. For a place that has stood millennia, walls are rebuilt in the blink of an eye._

 _I should not be here. What honour is there in this mission? What right or good is there in it?_

 _But what can I do? Go against the orders of my lord, the dictates of my faith? Men have died: my men. And I have sworn oaths to complete my task to the best of my ability. To walk away would be a betrayal of everything I am. I would shame my house and my sons._

Addam was no follower of the Old Gods, but in that moment he was tempted to kneel before the heart tree and ask what path of honour was still open.

There was the sound of a splash.

He tore his eyes from the tree. Much of the clearing was filled with a pool. Like the other, steam rose from its surface. But this one was larger, and clearly deeper. No bottom was visible in those deep cobalt blue waters. His gaze fastened on the figure of the woman.

She was in the centre of the pool. Her pale skin was clearly visible under the surface, her face above it. Her hair was wet, slicked back from her face. Her hands made a lazy pattern on the surface of the water. Her shoulders and chest were bare, and the water was clear enough that he could see the outlines of pale flesh below the surface.

Addam felt himself break into a sweat.

"Ser Addam," she said. "I didn't think you would come alone. I was expecting the septa and half a dozen of your men coming to drag me off by force."

"Lady Sansa," he stammered. "I … hoped we could be dignified in this."

She let out a throaty chuckle.

Addam felt like his knees were about to collapse underneath him. _Beauty that could drive a man mad._ He had never understood that phrase before this moment. She was perfect: flawless. Without a scrap of paint or artifice anywhere about her, she could have outshone any famed courtesan or celebrated court beauty. Even Cersei Lannister or Rhaella Targaryen in all their silks and jewels could not have compared.

Her eyes were near as blue as the water she was swimming in, her cheeks flushed with the heat. She bit her lower lip, and there was a flash of white teeth against the pink of her mouth. His eyes trailed down her long neck to the hollow at the base of her throat. Through the rippling water, he could see the swell of her breasts, and a flash of – He gasped, felt the rush of blood to his groin, and the strain of his erection against the lacings of his pants.

Her eyes flickered, and he knew she had seen. He wondered what she would do.

Sansa looked down at the surface of the water as her hands made lazy patterns through the water. She looked suddenly uncertain, and Addam was struck by how young she was, despite everything that had happened.

 _Gave her bastard half-brother a good thrust last night in the hopes I would fight to keep her_. Jon Snows' words rang in his mind.

"Sansa," he said as gently as he could, with the memory of that dark kitchen and Snow's unnatural speed still fresh in his mind. _I could have died._ "Surely you didn't think Jon could have won? I have fifty fighting men here. He was just one, alone. He could have died. As it is, he is wounded."

She dropped her eyes, and he could see a flush of shame creeping over her face.

She was no accomplished seductress; that much was clear. No hardened manipulator of men. She would have been far easier to resist if that was the case. But as she was, a girl playing with men's desires, not in control of the situation, not at all - Addam felt his blood aflame.

It would be the work of a few heartbeats to strip his clothes off and plunge into the pool after her. He could imagine her skin wet against his own, the softness of her flesh against his manhood. He could take her on the shores of the pool, the warm water around them. He imagined thrusting into her, her small cries of pleasure, her head thrown back as he worked within her … His breath was coming fast.

He took a step back. A smile crossed her lips.

"I know what you are thinking," she said. She ducked under the water. He could see her white form moving towards him through the water, and took another step back.

Sansa surfaced a few paces from the edge of the pool. After a moment's hesitation, she took a breath, and stood.

The water came to her narrow waist. Her skin was flushed from the warm water. Tendrils of steam rose around her, surrounding her like a lover's kiss. Her hair hung dripping down her back and spilled into the water around her. Addam couldn't look away from her torso – the sight of her teats, plump and high, nearly brought a groan to his lips. As he stared, her soft pink nipples hardened in the breeze.

Her hand curved around one breast, long fingers framing the nipple, a silent offering.

"I could escape in the Riverlands," she said. "I'd make my way to Riverrun." She licked her lips, and her chest heaved as she drew a long, nervous breath. "Nobody would ever know."

It felt like the clearing was spinning. The face in the heart tree was watching him with silent eyes. "Come here," he told her, faltering over the words.

She smiled, and walked forward, the water receding from her hips as she came to reveal a triangle of auburn curls at the base of her belly. He shivered at the thought of those long thighs wrapped around his waist, those delicate toes curling in pleasure. She stopped a hand's width away from him, huge blue eyes looking up at him. For a moment, he felt like he was drowning in them.

Then he swept the cloak off his shoulders and put it around her. "Come, Lady Lannister," he told her as he fastened it around her throat. "We have a long journey to Casterly Rock."

Her face crumpled. "You … you … you're horrible." She pounded on his chest with her fists, the cloak back around her shoulders. He had to grab her wrists to stop her. She struggled to get free, her breasts bouncing with each move, her wet hair leaving flying droplets of water all over him. Finally, he spun her around and pinned her back against his chest while he wrapped the cloak around her again, and this time tucked it in secure. Then he hoisted her up and threw her over his shoulder. He had a vision of taking her back to his chambers in the guesthouse, throwing her across the fur covered bed … he forced it from his mind, tried to still the beating of his heart at the feel of her body pressed close against him.

She beat her fists against his back, and kicked her legs, but he held her secure. After a moment she went still.

Addam stood for a moment, regaining his breath after the struggle. He had one hand on her hip to keep her up, and the other arm wrapped behind her knees. There was mud from the pool on her feet. Her hair hung down past his knees. He was still as hard as a rock. He shifted her weight, and carried her out of the Godswood.


	11. Chapter 11

The box was too small to lie down flat in, and too low to sit up. He was forced into a half-crouch that left muscles screaming for relief. It was cold here, too, but that didn't matter. He had heard the folk of Winterfell whisper that he didn't feel the cold. It wasn't true. He was always cold, always, no matter what heat there was. Blood dripped from the wound in his leg. He could feel that he was sitting in a puddle of it. The pain from that cut was a counterpoint to the throb in his skull, to the bite of the ropes that bound his wrists and ankles. As the hours wore on, a shaft of light filtered through the air hole they had knocked in the roof. Still no one came. His mouth was dry, and his body ached for water.

But Jon did not try to break out of the box. Burial alive, the Lannister man had threatened him with. That was a deep fear. _Can I die like ordinary men? Or would I linger on, tormented by thirst and hunger, alone in the dark?_ He still felt the ice of the Wall surrounding him, closing him in, smothering him.

Finally, he heard voices. The box was lifted. His injured head was knocked against the side.

Then, blinding light. He went sprawling out onto hard stone. Bound, he couldn't catch himself, and he went to his knees, head bent low to the ground, near sobbing from the pain.

"Jon!"

His head jerked up. Sansa stood in front of him. _What was she doing here? She was to stay hiding in the crypts, there was plenty of food …_ Then he took in her dress, and he nearly choked in his fury.

She was clad in red silk trimmed in golden fur, a border of Lannister lions chasing each other around the hem, along the sleeves, and along the edge of the low cut bodice. He could smell them on her. The cold-faced septa was the freshest; her scent was in the folds of the dress, of the net that caught Sansa's hair. But under that he could smell the knight with the burning tree on his surcoat. He could smell the man's sweat, and the wool of his cloak, and the musk of the man's arousal that clung to Sansa's skin.

Her skirts rustled as she knelt in front of him. "I'm sorry," she said. "I'm so sorry." Her fingers touched the bruise on his forehead as gently as a kiss. "They would have killed you. I … I never meant for you to be hurt."

"Wherever they take you, I will follow."

She shook her head. "No. Bran has agreed – he will keep you here. It was the only way."

There was a pendant with a golden lion nestled between her breasts. _What did they think, that they could paint her with silly little golden cats, and deny the truth?_ He had known it the instant he saw her again. It screamed out to him when he saw her walking about the castle walks with that loping, long-legged gate. It was there in her stillness, the wary peace of a wild thing, in her grace, in her moments of savagery.

 _She is a wolf in human skin._

"Lady Lannister," the Septa's voice broke in. "It is time to depart. It will be a long journey home for you."

 _She is my mate, my other half, now and forever._

Sansa pressed her forehead to his. "I'm sorry," she whispered again.

Then strong arms grasped her from behind and pulled her away in a swirl of silk and fur and golden chain.

Jon had been angry when he had fought the men in the Great Hall, but that anger had made him rash. Now his anger was cold, unwavering. He would not make the same mistake twice. He remained passive as they cuts his bonds and replaced them with manacles from the Stark armoury. There was leather padding under the iron, but the message was clear.

He raised his head. The Lannister party was saddling up. They were in high spirits, with jests being thrown back and forth among the young squires and the men-at-arms as they prepared to go.

Most of the people of Winterfell had gathered to watch in silence. A few flakes of snow were falling from the grey skies.

The horses were saddled and ready to go. Jon watched the crowd of northerners part. Bran was wheeled into the courtyard in his chair, Hodor pushing. Beth Cassel was at his side. Her hair had been dyed red and shorn, and it stood out in an aura around her face. She had a bag slung over one shoulder. Her face was stony, although there was a redness to her eyes that suggested she had been crying.

"You must be jesting," the septa said, looking at Beth.

"Ser Marbrand agreed to this," Bran said. "I have his oath."

Beth gave a smirk at the septa's obvious discomfiture, but it soon faded. Silently, she knelt before Bran. He reached out and touched the curls around her ears. Then he put his hands on her head, and said something to her that the wind carried away from Jon's ears.

One of the men put his hands on Sansa's waist and hoisted her up to sit in front of the Burning Tree knight. A horse was brought for Beth.

Jon snarled in fury at the sight of the knight's arm around Sansa's waist. Their eyes met. She mouthed a silent goodbye.

And then the horses were moving as the Lannister party rode out. Hooves thundered on the stones. Banners trailed in the air. Armor shone bright with steel.

And then they were gone. The gates shut behind them. The people of Winterfell were silent.

Jon threw his head back and cried out in a howl of rage that echoed off the very stones of the castle.

* * *

Hodor had taken Jon into the keep, to the audience chamber where the empty direwolf throne loomed. There were rings set into the floor. The giant had silently secured Jon's chains to them, ignoring all the struggles and insults. Then he left him there, alone in the deserted room.

Jon fought against the chains, but the steel was unyielding, and soon he collapsed panting onto the floor.

It was near sunset when the creak of wood alerted him to Bran's presence.

Jon scrambled to his feet. He was pleased to feel that the wound in his thigh was nearly healed.

Bran stopped his chair near the throne. He levered himself out of the chair, across the floor, and up into the throne, deftly settling himself into the seat. He rested one elbow on an armrest that was carved into a snarling wolf's head. Summer paced in and settled himself at Bran's feet.

"Why are you still here?" he asked.

Jon stared at Bran, incredulous. "You-" he let out a torrent of the foulest abuse he could think of, shaking his chains in fury.

Bran didn't bat an eye. "Please, continue," he said with an airy wave of his hand. "My feelings may get hurt. I might start to cry."

Jon yanked at the chains.

Bran looked past him. "Wyatt," he said. "Come forth."

Jon hadn't even realized other people had entered the room during his tirade. There were a dozen or more. People of Winterfell, plainly dressed, their faces showing the marks of years of hardship.

Wyatt Snow trailed forward, his expression nervous. "Lord Bran," he said. He bowed.

"I have made oaths. Do you witness that I have kept my brother Jon Snow imprisoned, that I have made all efforts to keep him secure? That I have not released him?"

"You have, my lord. I have witnessed it."

Jon unleashed another torrent of abuse. He listed every part of Bran's anatomy that he would violate, the body parts he would use to do it, that acts he would perform on Summer while Bran watched-.

Bran raised his hand, and despite himself, Jon feel silent.

"If you would be free, then break the chains."

"That's impossible," Jon spat. He looked down at the chains as he rattled them.

Flecks of red dust drifted through the air.

Jon reached down, disbelieving. He had checked those chains himself. They were castle-forged steel, well maintained, bearing Mikken's mark. They had been smooth and hard.

Now links were pitted with rust. He ran his fingers over the metal. Not enough to break on its own, but a point of weakness that hadn't been there before.

More people were coming into the chamber. Bran watched, silent, his eyes hooded.

The chains were long enough for Jon to stand, but not for him to raise his hands above waist-height. Jon braced himself, and flexed upwards.

Nothing.

He bent his head, panting. More people were filtering into the chamber. Some had flour on their hands, others smelled of sweat from chopping wood, or of milk from the dairy. Many were old, or very young. There were far more women than men: the survivors of the Dreadfort. Jon could feel their eyes on him, their expectation.

He readied himself again. Muscles strained. Sweat dripped from his brow. There was a hint of movement, but not enough. Stars danced in the corners of his vision.

Then he was on the stone floor, panting.

 _I cannot. I cannot do it. I don't have the strength._

 _I can_.

He pressed his hands into the stone, feeling the power of Winterfell that had endured for winters beyond count. He envisioned the thick blocks of granite, the earth supporting and surrounding them, the roots of the trees reaching for nourishment in the dark soil. He remembered running in the woods of the north, the endless endurance of the wolf. He felt the memory of a lifetime honing his body in the training yards. He looked up to see the faces surrounding him.

He got to his feet. He was calm, at peace. Then he raised his arms, and pulled against the metal with all his might.

The rusted iron broke with twin clangs that resounded off the walls. The ends of the chains fell to the floor. Jon raised his arms in triumph. _I did it. I am free._ Cheers broke out. People were embracing each other. Summer lept to his feet and danced around Jon.

Bran smiled.

Overcome with emotion, Jon went to one knee before the throne. "My king," he said. "I am sorry that I doubted."

"Jon Snow," the King of Winter told him. "There is a hunt before you."


	12. Chapter 12

Beth wept as she rode out through the gates of Winterfell, leaving behind the only home she had ever known and near everything she had ever loved behind. The Lannister banner flying at the head of the party wavered in her vision as salty tears ran down her cheeks and dripped into the scarf over her mouth. She felt like her heart was an ocean of sadness.

 _But I could not have stayed. I go south in the service of my King and my Gods. That must be enough for me._

Beth trusted in her Gods. She just wished she knew their will better. Near two years before she and the other survivors had been freed from the dungeons of the Dreadfort by men of the Vale. Beth had stepped into the light, felt the wind on her skin, grounded her feet in the earth of the north, and heard the voices of the Old Gods like a great bell note. But the moment had passed, and Beth had just been a girl again, and now she was filled with doubts. She had knelt at the Heart tree and prayed for guidance, but heard nothing more than the wind in the leaves, telling her nothing.

She had expected the party to take to the Kingsroad south immediately. To her surprise, they veered off in the Wintertown, and stopped at one of the deserted inns. It was clearly occupied – the cowardly Lannister scum had left some people and supplies here before entering Winterfell. Beth found herself smiling for all her sadness. She and others had thought about trying to destroy the food the interlopers had brought with them. Clearly their plot had been anticipated.

The red-haired sheep-fucker leader – Marbrand – called for a halt, and handed the Princess down from the saddle to one of the other knights. He looked uncomfortable, and as he dismounted, he moved with less than his usual grace. Beth quietly made her way to her lady's side. Sansa was cold, and distant. Her expression was empty, but Beth could see that tiny line of tension that appeared between Sansa's eyes when she was distressed.

Beth could have torn out the entrails of every man and woman in the Westerlands and hung them from trees at the sight of that tiny line.

Marbrand was ordering extra mounts and packhorses brought out. There were sleighs, too – utilitarian ones designed to carry cargo, others for passengers, and one last one. That sleigh was finely painted in red and gold, with lions on the side, and the interior was lavish with fine woods and the seats piled high with furs.

Beth pressed herself against Sansa's side, and felt the pressure of a gentle grip on her hand.

"You must be careful. Ser Marbrand's guarantee will protect you," Sansa said, softly, urgently, in Beth's ear. "Do not be shy to remind him of it."

The Septa was watching them, Beth saw, but she was well out of earshot. Still, the sight gave Beth the shivers.

"Remember Septa Mordane's lessons in the ways of the south," Sansa continued. "Recall your courtesies. You are a maiden of gentle birth, that will also protect you, although … not as much as some might think. You must be careful, Beth, please."

"I'm not afraid of them," Beth said.

Sansa's eyes were distant. "You should not have come. This is likely to be a one-way trip for me." She looked so sad as she said it, and she huddled in the Lannister furs.

"There is still hope," Beth said, but her words faltered.

These men … _They hunted down Jon Snow, the shade who walked the dark places beyond the Wall. They dragged him on the ground in chains and they put him in a box like an animal._ Beth had prayed for his victory, had believed that he would keep their Princess safe in the north.

Now, looking around, she understood better. She had seen so few strong fighting men since the Vale army departed Winterfell. Now they were surrounded by them. Flashing steel, leather harnesses, bodies rippling with muscle. _We cannot escape. We cannot fight._

 _But I do not intend to surrender._

"I wish … I would make offering to the stone," Beth said. "But …" She sighed, and looked at the Septa.

Sansa followed her gaze. Her eyes narrowed, and then a little smile crossed her lips. "Go on," she said. "I will distract them."

Beth took a few steps away, then turned to watch.

The Lannister party was busy readying themselves to depart. Marbrand was conferring with his squires, two lady's maids loading a packhorse. Knights, squires, grooms, men at arms, they were occupied in their tasks. Sansa stood in the middle of it, just a girl in a red silk dress. A very pretty girl, but nothing more. She raised her hand and brushed her hair away from her face, and …

…and then she was Sansa Stark of Winterfell, and they all moved around her. Beth found herself almost unable to look away from those huge blue eyes, found herself captivated by the way that cascade of auburn hair tumbled down across that pale cheek, by the curve of soft breast ... Sansa's smile deepened. One of the squires dropped his armload of harnesses in the snow near her feet. A man let the reigns of the horse he was holding slide through his fingers. Marbrand's conversation trailed off. His gaze was fixed on Sansa. He shifted his weight, as if about to step towards her.

Beth ducked around a corner, and nobody saw her go. It was only a few hundred yards to her destination, she knew. As soon as she was out of sight she ran, her booted feet punching through the snow with each step.

The sacred stone was little more than a misshapen lump of rock just off the road south, but no houses had been built anywhere its shadow could reach. Beth slowed as she reached that invisible line, took a breath, then crossed. The grey face of the rock was nearly hidden by snow. Rivulets of ice ran down the exposed part of the face. Beth started at them: drips of frozen offerings from travellers fleeing south, asking protection from the god of the stone. Some of the ice was clear trails of water, some the white of milk from beasts or a woman's breast, some the burgundy of wine or gold of beer. This god was a strong one, and always thirsty.

Beth steeled herself, and ran her fingers across the tears on her cheeks. The stone was cold, far colder than it should have been even in the winter. She touched the surface only for a moment, but her fingers stuck and she had to pull hard to tear them free. The pain was like a driven nail.

"Please," she said, not even knowing what she was asking for. "Please."

Those small tears, her offering of love and loss, it wasn't enough. She could feel the god waiting to drink, all the gods of the north. "I am yours," she said. "Your instrument, your voice, your hand." She reached down and loosened the knife from her belt. It was a poor-woman's blade of bronze. The edge was sharp, though. Beth bared the flesh of her forearm and put the knife to it.

The red blood sprang up in a bright line. She extended her arm, and let the droplets run down to her fingers and drip onto the stone. She waited, hoped.

Nothing.

Beth bowed her head. She turned.

She wasn't alone.

The Septa was within the circle of the rock's shadow. She walked toward Beth, her paces slow

and measured. "I wondered where you were going in such a hurry, little sheep girl." She smiled.

"Is this very nice … rock …" her voice was amused, "truly worth all this trouble?"

Beth said nothing.

"She's very clever, our Lady. Beautiful, spirited. Her sons will be a credit to House Lannister."

Gianna was close now. Beth forced herself not to step backward.

"You're a little bit of a thing, aren't you. Not plain exactly, just … ordinary. Nobody would look twice at you. What, did you grow up running after Lady Sansa, sitting on a cushion at her feet? I'd wager the finest dress you ever owned was something she had worn out. Did you wear it and pretend to be her?"

"I—" Beth felt her cheeks burning.

"Of course you did. What girl would not have such foolish thoughts?" Gianna smiled, but her eyes were like ice. "You will do well enough, sheep girl. We have a long enough trip ahead, and there will be a need for you to brush your lady's hair and lace her dress. Perhaps even keep her warm in bed on these cold northern nights."

In the Septa's voice it sounded like something dirty and shameful.

"Come now, girl. Your lady will be missing you." The Septa put her hand on Beth's arm.

There was a roaring in Beth's ears and the world was spinning around her. "What do you fear, Gianna Hill?" The woman's voice rang in Beth's ears, strong and sure.

The Septa's face was ashen, her eyes wide.

The voice carried on. "The god of this place takes no notice of you. Do you think the power that builds in ice and deep snow cares for your petty games? The seasons will turn, and the queen will bring the spring, and then the great melt will wash through this land. Return to your own lands. The north does not care for your life or your death."

There was a crack and a pain across her face, and Beth found herself on her knees in the snow, her cheek aflame. The Septa was staring down at her.

"What … who was that?" Beth asked. "Where … who was speaking?"

The Septa closed her mouth. "Nobody," she said. "Nobody spoke. Your mind was playing tricks on you, you little superstitious fool. Get up." The Septa started to walk away, then turned back. "And if you sneak away again to play at these little rituals, I will make you regret it."


	13. Chapter 13

Sansa seated in the gold and red sleigh that was to carry her south was like a vision, too beautiful to be real. Beth scrambled up and sat opposite her. Before her conversation with Gianna, she wouldn't have hesitated to sit beside her lady, but now ... The Septa's words shouldn't make a difference, she knew that, but they did.

Sansa's eyes flickered to Beth's face, and her lips narrowed. "What is wrong?" she asked.  
Beth just shook her head. She kept her eyes down as the septa climbed into the sleigh, followed by two women dressed in plain wool. Likely maids, Beth assumed. The septa sat beside Beth, and at her gesture, one of the maids sat on either side of Sansa. It was a tight fit with five in the sleigh. None of them spoke. Sansa looked from one maid, to the other, to the septa, to Beth.

The silence stretched on.

"So, I lay with my half-brother two nights ago," Sansa said. "We did the act on the floor of the Winterfell sept after I caught him urinating on the altar of the mother."

Sansa looked at Gianna.

Gianna looked at Sansa.

Beth swallowed hard, torn between astonishment and laughter. She cast a quick look at the maids. They both sat stony-faced. Sansa might as well not even have been talking.

The Septa handled it better than most would have. Beth begrudgingly had to give the woman that. Her eyes widened for a moment, but then she just sniffed. "That should make for an interesting conversation between you and your lord husband when you reach Casterly Rock, Lady Lannister."

"You know, I think it might?" Sansa blinked, slowly. She looked so innocent, so pure and beautiful, like a maiden out of a storybook. "But then, I am a Lannister now, am I not? I need to fit in with my new good-family."

Gianna's mouth settled into a thin, hard line.

"I found the experience pleasant," Sansa continued. "Jon has a very gentle touch. He was always very good with his hands."

The Princess smiled, and there was something of the predator about her. "There is something I was hoping that I might ask another woman about. After I was wed to Tyrion, there were so many japes. Being, at the time, only twelve years old, I was too shy to ask, but some of them were confusing. 'The Dwarf in the North', well that one is clear enough, but there was another one about 'Winter is Coming', and then they would laugh … Septa, I was wondering if you might be so good as to explain just what they meant?"

Beth felt herself flushing red. She hunkered down in the seat.

"Once again, my lady, I'm sure your husband will be happy to explain once we reach Casterly Rock. With demonstrations."

When Sansa drew breath, Gianna broke in. "And if you are intending on shocking your maids, you might want to consider that they are both deaf."

Sansa's lips quirked. "I can do gestures."

"I can see that this will be a long trip," the Septa said.

Sansa smirked.

Beth looked back at Winterfell. Its snow capped towers and walls gleamed in the sun. She felt tears gathering in her eyes again.

And she realized.

The wind was hitting Beth full in the face. As she looked north. It was a northerly. Sometime in the last few hours, the winds had shifted, and with them, the weather.

Northerlies. They brought the worst weather, the deepest snows, the most biting winds. The North was bringing all its fury.

She looked back to the castle. Thank you, she thought. Thank you, my king.

The party left Winterfell in formation, knights riding before and behind the red and gold sleigh, a squire in the lead with the Lannister banner flapping proudly. Beth forced herself not to look back at the castle. She had said her good-byes last night with tears and urgent, awkward kisses, and now there was no more chances for regrets. She turned her face to the road.

They made good time, for travel in the north in winter. The road had seen travel since the last snowfall. The Lannister party had helped to beat down the snow themselves on their northward leg, but the wheels and hooves of the food wagons had done their part. There had been other parties, too, likely, headed even further north. It was a perilous trip, but with Iron Bank credit, the north could pay. The eight-thousand-year-old Stark name had become lifeblood for the north in its darkest winter.

The wind was blowing colder and stronger as the hours wore on; Beth could feel it. She was well dressed for it, though, even without the piles of furs in the sleigh. She wore thick nubby wool, with a layer of the finest woven wool underneath, and against her skin, her most precious possession – silk underwear to keep the body heat in. With her feet nestled in massive sheepskin boots, she was perfectly comfortable.

The Lannister dress did not seem to be doing similar service for Sansa, but she had nestled herself down into the furs as soon as they were on the road. Beth hoped the Princess would not suffer too much on the trip. The folk of Winterfell knew her ways – keeping to a routine in the hours, dislike of strangers, order in her personal possessions – and knew the anxiety any break in that could engender. They all had their moments of fear, or anger, or weakness. Beth thought of how the black moods would take Bran and he would withdraw into his chambers for days at a time.

At mid-afternoon, they stopped in a sheltered hollow in the rolling hills to rest the horses. A knight with a golden bow on his coat approached the sleigh, a young man by his side. He bowed to Sansa. "My Lady," he greeted her.

"Ser Manfryd," she nodded acknowledgement.

"My squire here is from the Vale - I hear tell that you have a great fondness for lemons, My Lady Lannister." He held out a plate of cookies. "These are not as fresh as I would wish, but I hope that they please you." They were pretty things, each one with a design baked in: a flower, a star, a moon. The one closest to Sansa, set a little apart from the others, had a small bird.

Sansa's eyes flashed to the bird, and then to the face of the knight. "Thank you, Ser," she said. She took a cookie with a flower on it. "Your kindness is not necessary, but I thank you. Would you share with the others?"

Beth took one eagerly. It was sweet with honey and tart with the lemons, and Beth held the morsels in her mouth as long as she could to savour the taste.

The sleigh was quiet, but this time more companionably, as they all munched on the cookies. One of the maids began gesturing to the other, and they both laughed. The Septa smiled. She gestured, too, her fingers flashing as quickly as theirs.

"My lady," the Septa said. "Aila and Kya ask me to thank you."

"You know what they are saying?" Beth asked.

"It is no rare thing in the Westerlands for a child to be born unable to hear." Gianna's face was neutral. "Many people from our lands can use the sign language."

The Septa was different with her maids, Beth thought. Gentler, less forbidding. Beth marked them off the list of potential allies.

"It is how the Silent Sisters speak to one another," Sansa said. "I've seen it."

Gianna paused, and Beth had the impression that she did not like this turn of inquiry. "Yes," she admitted. "I was given to the sisters at birth. My past is no secret. I petitioned the Faith to be released from their service some years back." There was a twist to her lips that suggested the memory was distasteful. "Many of the servants of the Sisters are women from the Westerlands. Alia and Kye have been with me since I was a girl."

Sansa glanced at Beth. "It is a common thing," she explained. "The Sisters are known as the wives of the Stranger. They live in silence and contemplation, and often, it is a place for poor widows, inconvenient wives, and girls who have brought shame on their families."

Well, that's fucked.

"But some women do chose to join them," Sansa added.

The Septa sniffed. "Deviants."

Sansa raised an eyebrow. She put one hand out. "Lifetime of washing dead bodies." Then the other. "Lifetime in bed with King Joffrey." She made a weighing motion.

"He was of House Lannister and your king." The Septa spat, and for the first time Beth saw genuine anger.

Sansa was watching Gianna. Suddenly her eyes widened as she looked at the Septa's hands. "Oh. Oh." In her mouth, it was like a curse. She waved away Beth's raised eyebrow with a murmur of "nothing." But there was a little frown on her face that told of a mind working quickly.

The sun was on the horizon by the time they crested a ridge and looked down into the great valley of the White Knife River. Castle Cerwyn was built on a rocky outcropping jutting out from the valley wall. It had been deserted for years now, but it was maintained as a way point for the food convoys and other parties travelling on the Kingsroad. It was a shell, Beth knew, but one with a magnificent view. The valley was so wide it would nearly be a day's journey to cross it. The far banks were a misty grey in the evening light, the river itself a looping white line. That wasn't the water that had cut this valley, Beth knew. She had heard tell that in the Melt, Castle Cerwyn was on an island.

The light was near gone and a few bright stars were out before the party pulled into the castle yard. The sharp brightness of those stars meant a bitterly cold night, Beth knew. As she jumped down from the sleigh, the snow squeaked under her boots. There would be ice aplenty, too, after the relative warmth of these last weeks. The road would be treacherous tomorrow. Beth smiled.

Inside the castle was no warmer than the outside, but at least they were out of the wind. Marbrand hastily dispatched men to lay fires in the barracks for the common men, and in the lord's hall for knights and squires. Stiffly, he directed the women to a tower room. He made apologies to Sansa for the cold, keeping his eyes on the floor.

Beth watched Sansa's eyes on him, then a rapid glance to the Septa, then back to Marbrand. A smile crossed her lips. She put her hand on his arm as she thanked him. She looked slender, and very young and vulnerable.

The Septa looked sour. Beth struggled not to laugh.

The chamber had narrow windows and a stout bar on the door. Men brought the chests and laid out a featherbed and blankets, but it was still a rough, grim, cold space. Kye worked to spark a fire in the hearth, and Gianna sent Alia to the kitchens for warm water as soon as it was available.

Beth kept Sansa as close to the hearth as she could and put a blanket around her lady's shoulders as she worked on the laces of the red Lannister dress. Underneath it, the Princess wore nothing but a linen shift so thin it was nearly transparent. She was shivering like a leaf. The small bumps of her nipples stood out plainly against the fabric. Beth found herself flushing with embarrassment, for all that she had helped Sansa dress dozens of times before.

Gianna silently knelt to unbutton the sleeves of the gown.

"Get the blue dress from the lady's chest," Gianna told Beth. "It is warmer."

"Why?"

Sansa's question fell into a moment of silence. The Septa sat back.

"Why what?"

"Why all of this? Why is Tyrion doing this?"

"Do you expect me to speak for the Lord of Casterly Rock? I have met him three times. If you wished, you could read his letter, my lady."

Sansa shook her head, looking into the fire.

"He's a difficult man to know, our Lord Tyrion, but that should be no surprise to you," Gianna continued. "He gave orders to show you every possible consideration. But …"

"But," said Sansa. "Tell me about the 'but.'"

But he is the lord of Casterly Rock only because he is the last male Lannister. Stannis has granted him the title out of duty and law, but he has no love for Tyrion. The bannermen mock him, calling him less than a man. A lord who cannot command respect will always be uneasy in his seat. And who could respect a man who cannot even keep his own wife? Particularly when that wife is of a birth second only to Princess Shireen, and is famed to be one of the most beautiful women of her generation. And if Tyrion cannot hold the Rock, the Lannister rule of the Westerlands is at an end."

Sansa reached out her hands to cup Gianna's face. "Your family does not deserve your loyalty," Sansa said, her voice soft, dreamlike.

Gianna froze.

"I know a Lannister when I see one, Septa. Who was your father – Tygett? Gerion? Or are you Tywin's own get? You are, aren't you? He was a proud man, too proud to admit he'd fathered a bastard. And you had to wait until he was dead to escape the Sisters, didn't you? But still you aren't free of him – here you are protecting his legacy, fighting his wars, keeping his secrets."

Gianna was on her feet, her face a mask of fury.

Their eyes were locked, but it was Gianna who looked away first.

"Not the blue dress," the Septa said. Her voice was cold. "The grey and white. Dress our lady in Stark colours tonight. And have her in the lord's chambers for dinner in an hour."

She swept from the room.

And Sansa grinned, showing her teeth like a wolf.


	14. Chapter 14

Sansa clasped Beth's hand as they walked through the deserted halls of Castle Cerwyn, strong men escorting them before and behind.

"This will not be easy," Sansa murmured. "But you must remain silent and do nothing."

"What do you think the Septa is going to do?" Beth whispered. She shouldn't be frightened, she told herself. _I am a daughter of the north._ But she felt small and silly. _I don't know why I came. The Princess would have been better with someone older and wiser._ There had been many women at Winterfell who would have gone on this journey, wherever it might have led, for love of their lady.

Sansa's face was so still that it might have been a mask. "What I want her to," she answered softly. "Something stupid." Her voice lingered over the last word with something like relish.

 _She's so strong,_ Beth thought. _I wish so badly that I was like her._ She had long wondered what it would be like to be one of the other great ladies of the realm. _Margaery Tyrell or Princess Arianne. Able to have any man they wanted._

Despite Beth's fears, when they were shown into the Lord's chambers, the Septa was not there. A huge fire was burning in the hearth. Marbrand was sitting with Patrik Woolfield, both of them in their shirtsleeves and with cups of mulled wine in their hands.

 _Probably congratulating themselves on a job well done. Taking a lady from a near empty castle, her home, by force. I'll bet you both feel like big strong men._

Beth glared at Patrik in particular. He was supposed to be a northerner, even if he was sworn to the Manderleys and wore a silver seven pointed star of the Faith. _Being of the North should matter more!_

They rose, greeted the Princess courteously enough, and seated her in a cushioned chair by the fire, with Beth on a cushion at her feet. Marbrand put a cup in her hand and asked after her comfort. The man didn't seem to know where to put his eyes, though, and ended up addressing Sansa's ear in a vain effort to avoid staring.

 _Why don't you draw a picture? It will last longer._

It was worth a look though, and Beth took some pride in that. Sansa's dress was her own, and her finest. It was silk velvet trimmed in the softest white fur at the hem of the full skirts, on the edges of the long sleeves that cascaded down to the floor, and framing the shoulders and neck. Beth had woven white ribbons into a diadem in her auburn hair. She looked every inch a Stark, and more regal than Queen Cersei.

The room was crowded and the air was close. Most of the knights were clearly going to bed down here - there were saddlebags and bedrolls stored against the walls. The space smelled of men's sweat. The warm water the women had managed to procure to wash was evidently in scarce supply. Still, at least it was warm here. There wouldn't be many spaces in this Castle proof against the winds. But in the Lord's chambers, much of the glass of the windows were still intact, and where the small diamond panes were broken, they had been stuffed with rags. With all the bodies close, it was near as warm as Winterfell.

Ser Tysen had broken out a lute, and one of the squires was accompanying him on a pipe. Several of the other knights talked softly together. It might have been any gathering of nobility, Beth thought. _Except that we cannot leave_.

"Ser Patrik, I was curious as to whether you had seen my brother Rickon recently?" Sansa's voice was quiet, but courteous.

A genuine smile crossed Patrik's face. "I saw him two moons ago, in White Harbour. He's a fine lad - growing tall and strong. He has the look of your brother, the Young Wolf."

Sansa nodded. "Bran does, too," she said quietly.

"Well, young Rickon is growing straight and tall, you need have no concerns on his regard. He'll make a fine lord of the north when his time comes, he or his sons. The future of House Stark is secure." Patrik coughed. "I am sorry that your ladyship will have to miss young Rickon's wedding. I understand the plans are being made."

 _They will wed Rickon to a Manderly well before Bran's sixteenth birthday,_ Beth thought in silent fury. _So his consent is not required_. She would have liked to wipe the smile off that smug knight's face with all his false concern about the 'future of House Stark.'

Sansa put her hand on Beth's shoulder in a silent caution. Her face was pale, but a stranger would not have been able to see her anger.

"Rickon is eleven," she said. "Just a boy."

"Given that Lord Bran cannot ensure the future of your house, Lady, surely you can understand the urgency. And Rickon is older than his years." Patrik smiled. "No few lads would envy him. I know I would have, when I was his age."

Sansa's smile did not touch her eyes. "Wylla's mother is of house Woolfield, is she not? When they are wed, our houses will be kin."

Patrik's eyes widened, and he cleared his throat. "It would be an honour greater than my house might have ever hoped to claim kinship to the Starks of Winterfell," he said gruffly.

Sansa's fingers tightened on Beth's shoulder, but any answer she might have made was interrupted by several squires bringing in a long table and setting it up for dinner. Other knights came in, dressed in varying levels of formality. There were five southerners and three from White Harbour, but two of the southerners were missing, as was the Septa. Ser Flemment and Ser Martyn, Beth thought. Sansa had drilled her on the names and sigils of the escort.

They were seated with the seven knights for dinner, empty places left for the septa and the missing two. Several of the squires poured wine, while others brought food up. Beth's mouth started watering the instant the platters were uncovered. _Bacon_. There were thick rashers, and stewed leeks on the side. The bread was dark, thick cut, and hearty. If the food was simple, it was plentiful and good, and the wine flowed freely. Beth ate everything that was put in front of her and piled her plate high with seconds.

Sansa picked at her food, and said little.

Gianna swept in near the end of the meal. Ser Flemment and Ser Martyn were in tow behind her. She looked at the rest of them as if she had just caught the lot of them stealing cookies from a threadbare kitchen.

"My apologies for the delay," she told Addam, not sounding in the least sorry. "We took a few moments to say prayers to the Stranger for Ser Kermit's soul. I only wish we could have brought his bones home with us."

There was a moment of silence all around the table.

Gianna took her seat. She had a long, narrow box of dark wood in her hand. She put it beside her plate, and took a modest helping of the food.

"Ser Addam, how long do you anticipate we shall be on the road?" she asked. 

Addam gave Gianna a sharp look, but he answered her fairly enough. "If the weather stays good, I hope a fortnight, but we have to be prepared for less luck than we have had."

Sansa looked up. "I don't understand … Moat Cailin alone is more than a fortnight even at the best of times, and then ..."

Addam's face was grave. "We are not going to Moat Cailin. At first light we will leave the Kingsroad and travel along the river to White Harbour. There are three ships waiting there to take us to King's Landing. From there, we will take the Goldroad to Casterly Rock. It will be a longer journey, but we will pass through lands that are secure and loyal to the King and the Faith."

There was a murmur of surprise all around the table. This was clearly news the remainder of the party. Even the Manderly knights appeared surprised.

"But at Winterfell, you said …"

Addam allowed himself a small smile. "I did. Any of your brother's bannermen who might take exception to the King's decrees will look for us on the Kingsroad. But I had no intention of risking passage near Greywater Watch, the Twins, or Riverrun." He paused. "You will at least be able to see your brother Rickon at White Harbour before we board the ship."

 _This is bad._ Beth had been full of plans to delay their trip with chaos on the road, and then attempt an escape when passing through more friendly lands. Riverrun had been obvious, but she had hoped that Marbrand the sheepfucker wouldn't have known of the loyalty of the crannogmen to the Starks. Greywater Watch had been their best chance, she had thought. More than anything, the land route gave them time. Now they had lost that advantage - they had only until they reached White Harbour. Less than that, even, as the last days of their trip would be through lands sworn to the Manderlys. _Damnit_.

"Still, a difficult trip, in the cold," the Septa said. She looked around at the assembled men. "And it is so unnecessary. We all know who is to blame for this. A silly girl who thought to defy her wedded husband and lord. Of course, Lady Sansa has not had the most … conventional life. She has not learned proper behaviour. She needs correction."

Beth felt the food turn to ashes in her mouth. She looked around, and saw more than one man nodding. Ser Patrik looked startled and dismayed, and the two other Manderly knights stirred. Sansa kept her head down.

Marbrand frowned. "Septa, this is not the time or place for -"

"We have all been forced into this wretched trip by Lady Sansa's defiance. We all have a stake in this" Gianna looked around. "What man here would allow such wilfulness from his lady wife? Are good, honest knights and lords to fear that every time they go on campaign, their wives are free to do as they please? Lady Sansa is my charge, as assigned by King and Faith, and as you have agreed, Ser Addam. Mine to correct when she misbehaves."

There was dead silence, and all eyes were on the Septa. She smiled, and opened the box she had brought...

Beth felt her heart stop. It was as if year, or even a season passed as that little wooden lid moved. What is in there? A knife? A branding iron? Something worse?

... and the Septa removed a small wooden paddle.

It was as if time slowed down. As she realized what the Septa intended to do, Beth's first thought was relief. This was so, so much better than what she had feared. The knot of tension in her gut dissolved.

And then the rage hit.

 _Stupid, miserable, petty cruelty, without even the courage to do anything truly bad._ That smug look on the Septa's face … Beth would have loved to wipe the expression away. Preferably with her fist. _What does she think she is going to achieve?_

Addam blanched, but before he could say a word, Patrik was on his feet. "This is an outrage," he said, his face red. "Like this, before all these men … It is an insult to the Regent and to the North."

"The girl has it coming," Martyn said. He took another swig of his wine. "Get on with it Septa, we're all waiting for the show."

Patrik moved as if to reach for the hilt of his sword. Addam was on his feet in an instant.

"Stand down, NOW." The tone of command snapped through the room. Patrik withdrew his hand. The other two Manderly knights froze, half risen from their seats.

"No!" Sansa said. "Please, ser, no." She rose, and put a gentle hand on Patrik's chest. Her eyes were downcast, the picture of demure beauty. "There is nothing you can do. If …" her lip trembled. "If I have been unwise …if I must bare the consequences of that … I would not have any man of the north harmed on my behalf."

Patrik looked stricken.

Beth looked around to gauge the effect of this stand-off on the southerners. Flemment and Martyn were openly smiling, as were a couple of the squires. Ser Manfryd was watching the Septa carefully, but did not seem displeased. Ser Tysen just seemed stunned. He stared at the unfolding drama as if unable to look away. Marbrand was pale.

 _But none of them will say a word. Even Marbrand. He might have, even with his word given, but for Sansa's submission. She knew exactly what she was doing._ Beth was so proud of her lady. _Only half a day since we left Winterfell, an_ d s _he has them on the edge of drawing steel against each other._

"Come here, Sansa", the Septa ordered.

The Princess gathered her skirts and stood. She was so pretty and graceful, Beth thought. Like something from a story, made life. Like a Queen. She didn't belong here, among these rough men and the cold-eyed septa. Beth wished she could snatch her away from them.

The instant Sansa was within arm's reach, the Septa had her arm, spun her about, and forced her down across her lap face down.

Slowly, almost lovingly, the Septa pulled up the silk velvet skirt, up over Sansa's legs, then her hips, then her waist, until it caught around her narrow ribcage. It made a thick pile of fabric on her back, the line of soft fur white on top of it all. Under the grey skirt was was a layer of smooth linen, then two layers of stiffened linen petticoats to give the skirt fullness. Each one came up, until there was nothing but the shift. That was silk, too. The Princess never liked anything next to her skin that wasn't. It was soft as butter, and hugged her thighs and calves.

The room was so silent that if as as if no one was even breathing. The Septa reached down to grasp the hem of the shift. Addam let out a sound that was half gasp, half moan as she slid it up. He didn't even seem aware he had done it.

Underneath, Sansa wore nothing but her smallclothes and stockings. The stockings came to just over her knees with pink ribbons around the top to hold them. Her thighs and the lower part of her buttocks were bare. The smallclothes were a triangle covering the divide, secured at the hips with pink ribbon that matched the stockings. The white silk was embroidered with pink flowers and green leaves - Beth had helped to do the work. She could see where her own stitches had gone crooked on one of the blossoms.

The room was small, and it felt smaller by the moment. Beth could smell the men all around her, the sweat from the day in the saddle, the leather they wore.

In the middle of it, the focus of all eyes, was Sansa's revealed behind. It was all gentle curves and pale skin that had never seen the rays of the sun, almost too perfect to be real.

Gianna rested one elbow in the mass of fabric piled on Sansa's back, and contemplated the embroidered smallclothes.

"How pretty," she said. "Pretty things on a pretty girl. You are a vain thing, aren't you, my lady?" With her other hand, she ran the paddle up the back of Sansa's thigh. "So much effort on something nobody is ever supposed to see. Shame on you."

And with that, she pulled the paddle back and delivered a firm whack to Sansa's backside.

It felt like near everyone in the room startled at the sound. Sansa half jumped and came upright. Gianna pushed her back down with a hand between the shoulderblades and struck her again.

 _It doesn't look too bad,_ Beth thought, _not physically._ Sansa's pale skin pinked under the blow, but the mark faded after a moment. Compared to what she had witnessed in the Dreadfort, it was nothing, nothing at all.

 _Doubtless_ _it hurt, but … This is theater. Something for the men to watch._

And they were. Tysen looked distressed. He was an older man with thick lines of grey in his dark hair. Perhaps he had daughters Sansa's age or even older. The others showed less reticence. Flemment was chewing on a mouthful of bacon, Martyn grinning widely. Marbrand's lips were parted in silent shock. Dismay was writ plain on his face, but at the same time he seemed mesmerized, like he was unable to look away.

 _And neither can I._

Beth could feel her heart racing, and

 _Deviant_ , Beth could hear the Septa's voice still, ringing in her ears.

 _No. That's not what I am. I … I have been on fire in a boy's arms. Breathless._

 _I don't want girls, not like that. And not ever the Princess. I love her, I would protect her, I would ... I would ..._

There was another blow, and Sansa gasped, a small squeak of distress.

The round flesh of her buttocks was pink, at least, where it was visible peeking out under the smallclothes. The rosy colour didn't fade now.

 _... I want to touch her ..._

"Wicked," the Septa said. _Whack_.

"Childish." _Whack_.

"Selfish." _Whack_. "Little." _Whack_. "Girl." _Whack_.

The blows were coming harder and faster. The Septa's eyes were narrowed, and her mouth tight. Beads of sweat stood on her brow.

"Say you are sorry."

Silence.

"Tell me … that … you … are ... sorry."

Sansa squirmed, and struggled. Her legs kicked. One slippered foot slid on the floor.

The Septa kept a firm grip on her waist, and wielded the paddle with more vigour than ever. The blows rained down. Sansa's buttocks and thighs were flushed red.

"Septa, please." Marbrand sounded near-strangled, and his cheeks were nearly as red as the Princess's backside. His eyes met Beth's and she could see the naked shame there.

 _He wants her, and he is humiliated by that desire._

 _And I am the same._

 _I have betrayed everything … everyone … that I love. Even my father._ Beth blinked back tears at the memory. _He was so proud to serve the Starks of Winterfell. He and cousin Jory. I always thought he would be glad to know I have done the same._

Beth wished she could sink into the floor or fade away into the walls. _Anything but being here, watching this, feeling the heat in my groin like I am a man wanting a woman._

"I'm sorry!" Sansa's voice burst out. _"I'm SORRY."_

It felt like they all jumped. Ser Tysen bowed his head, and gave a sigh of relief. Ser Martyn looked satisfied. Addam bit his lip. There was pain in his eyes.

The Septa paused. Then she struck again, just as hard, but her pace slower.

"Sorry for what?"

"I'm sorry that I defied Lord Tyrion."

"Your husband," the Septa prompted.

The paddle struck again.

"My husband," Sansa said quietly.

The Septa's arm tightened around Sansa's waist in a strange gesture that was almost an embrace.

"There now," she said. "Isn't that better?"

Slowly, taking her time, she found the shift from among the heap of skirts, pulled it straight, and laid it down over Sansa's red flesh.

"Sit up now, there's a good girl," she said, taking her arm off Sansa's waist. Slowly, with obvious pain, Sansa settled back onto her knees on the floor. She gasped in obvious pain, then settled her weight onto one hip. Addam started to get to his feet, then stopped. He looked to Beth.

 _I must go to her. She must not know … I can do this. I can pretend that nothing has changed._

As Beth went to her Princess, her eyes met the Septa's cold gaze. A smile crossed her lips.

 _She knows. Deviant, she called me. She knew all along. Oh Gods, does it show?_

But when Beth touched Sansa's shoulder, she looked up at her, through the tears, like she always had. She took Beth's hand, and gave it a small, secretive squeeze.

"Please, Septa … Ser Addam," Sansa's voice quavered. "If I might go to my chambers." She bowed her head, the picture of contrition.

"I will escort you myself."

Sansa visibly flinched at that, and Addam seemed to shrink on the spot. He turned a furious gaze on Gianna.

"And then, Septa, we will have words."


	15. Chapter 15

If Castle Cerwyn had become a place of cold stone and ice, the haunt of ghosts and memories, it still hosted some little spaces of warmth. In the tower chamber the fire had heated the room and the shutters were closed against the cold night air. A featherbed was laid on the straw mattress, deep and soft, with furs piled high. If the door was locked and guarded, at least the Lannister party was on the other side. It came as close as Beth could have hoped for a haven of peace.

Beth's childhood in the Long Summer had been golden. That ended with the death of her mother and her elder sister of dysentery in her seventh year. Her cousin Jory had cared for Beth and Roderick in the bleak months that followed. He had a gift for gentleness unexpected in a fighting man. Jory had weathered Beth's rages and storms of crying just as calmly as times when she would stare at the wall, silent, for days on end. He had brought father and daughter to some degree of peace in time. From him, Beth had learned to care for people who were hurting in mind and body.

Sansa was vibrating like a plucked harp string. Every muscle was tense. She had her arms wrapped across her chest. She flinched when Beth touched her shoulders.

Beth didn't try to talk. In silence, gently, touching her as little as possible, she helped Sansa out of the thick velvet dress and the heavy petticoats, leaving her clad only in her shift and smallclothes.

"You can lay down," she said, keeping her voice soft. "If you wish." The bed furs were from Winterfell: spotted Lynx, of finest quality, brought from Skaagos. They slid under Beth's fingers like they were oiled when she smoothed them into a little nest.

"I can't. I can't."

"All right."

 _An hour ago she was the picture of composure. I hate the Septa. I wish I could slice her belly open and pull out her guts, tie them to a tree, and wind her around it until she could see her own entrails wrapped up like wool on a skein._

Beth forced her anger down. Her own needs were not the priority here.

"There is water. You should drink."

Sansa made a dismissive gesture. "I'm fine. Fine. I've had worse." She looked at Beth. "So have you. You've seen things … This is nothing."

Beth remained silent, letting her talk.

"It couldn't have gone better, really," Sansa said. She laughed, a long giddy peel that echoed off the stones. Her eyes were bright. "Patrik was ready to draw steel! And Addam - I thought he was going to faint. He's furious now. The Septa won't dare try anything else. We are safer now. Our chances are better." Her words were racing, falling over each other. "Tomorrow, I must be seen to be pale and chastised. You have to talk to as many Northmen as you can. Find out who is sympathetic. And Addam's squire. Find out if he has one, and befriend him. Ser Tysen, too. He's another weak point. We have to drive the wedge in."

"In the morning," Beth answered. She kept her voice gentle, soothing. "You should lay down. I can help you. Rest."

"I can't rest, there is no time. You heard Addam. We will be on the road at first light, and in White Harbour in a fortnight." Sansa stopped. "And then … then there is no hope. None." She looked smaller, suddenly. "Not that there is much."

"Lay down," Beth repeated.

She put her hand on Sansa's shoulder, and this time Sansa let Beth guide her down onto the furs. She laid Sansa on her front to avoid any tender spots. She poured a cup of water from the carafe left for them, and held it to her lady's lips until she drank.

"Is the pain very bad?" she asked.

Sansa shook her head. "No. Not too bad."

"I could brush out out your hair, if you wished."

After a moment, Sansa nodded.

Beth fetched a brush from one of the chests. The ribbons and pins securing the auburn curls were firmly fastened - they had survived ill treatment - but they yielded quickly to gentle hands.

When she was done, Beth lay her hands on Sansa's shoulders. When there was no protest, Beth rubbed Sansa's back through the shift, making small circles on the flesh. There was heat in Beth's cheeks, but she forced herself to ignore it. _She needs this._ She just rubbed, gently, making no demands. After a while, Beth began to hum one of Old Nan's songs.

"Don't, please," said Sansa. "It makes me sad."

"All right." Beth continued the motion of her hands, and slowly, she felt the tension begin to fade from Sansa's body.

And then her shoulders began to shake.

Sansa was crying. Crying real tears, not the pretty pretense Beth had seen from her a half-dozen times in the past. Heaving sobs, the kind that left one red-nosed and puffy.

"I'm just so tired. I don't hate anyone, but I am so damned tired. All of it. It is too much. Why won't people just leave me alone? Why do they always have to take it out on me? I haven't done anything. I don't want to hurt anyone. I just want to be. Just be. Why won't they let me be? Why? I can't anymore. I can't. I can't." Her breath heaved. "I can't." The sobs shook her.

Beth kept her hand on Sansa's shoulder. _I wish I could do something more._

In time, the crying subsided.

"I made my play," Sansa said finally. "I'm not sorry. Hopefully the Septa knows she over-stepped. Hopefully I achieved that much."

"I hope so too." Beth could feel the slow burn of her own anger. "For her sake." The bronze knife at her side felt cold against her skin as she touched it. She thought of the dark stone, and the blood.

"What did she say to upset you, Beth?"

Sansa was never at rest for long. That sharp mind was always working.

"Nothing you might not have expected," Beth lied. "Mockery of the Old Gods. They can take care of themselves."

Sansa was silent. She had little enough time for gods, Beth knew. _Sansa believes in herself._

"Beth … Why are you here?"

Beth pulled back, stung. "I am loyal to the Starks of Winterfell," she said. _Typical Sansa, she thought. I adore her … But … The sting is always there. Always._

"You've left behind your home, your friends, everything you've ever known. Everything but for the Dreadfort. Why would you do that? It isn't just for me."

"I loved Winterfell, it is true. And if things had been different, I might have been happy there forever. But there was someone … someone I cared for. And with my birth," she sighed. "It wasn't a suitable match."

Sansa pushed herself up on her elbows, studying Beth with sudden interest.

 _She's so beautiful. Even all blotchy and swollen from crying._ Sansa was all a tumble of auburn curls and the shift open at the throat to show alabaster skin and a swell of breast.

"Well, that is very wise of you to consider. The match you make will affect the rest of your life," Sansa said. She pursed her lips. "Love is all well and good, but you must think of your future, and that of your children. Still … is the boy of good character? Given your family's service, I'm sure that we would be able to consider a grant of some land and maybe even ennoblement if he …Beth, what have I said?"

Beth felt her cheeks burning. She brushed the tears from her eyes. "My birth was not too _high_ for this match, _"_ she choked out. She wished that the stones would open and swallow her. "It was too low."

Sansa blinked. Then her eyes widened. " _Bran_?"

Beth pulled back. "I need to hang your dress up." Beth took the dress, and laid in front of the fire, lingering over the chore, hoping that the heat of the fire would excuse the colour in her cheeks.

"Beth?" Sansa asked.

Beth tensed, fearing what the Princess would say next. _There is no way I am not going to get hurt here. That is the problem._

"There is some lotion in my chest - could you get it?"

After a brief search, Beth found the lotion. It smelled of rose water and beeswax, and the glass jar was in the style of Highgarden. Expensive stuff.

"Would you rub my back some more?"

Backrub. Very well.

Beth took a breath, and poured some of the lotion into her hands. She rubbed them together to warm it, then ran her hands across Sansa's shoulders.

The Princess sighed in appreciation.

"You are very good to me, Beth. It is more than I deserve"

"I am glad I am here." She meant it. _I am glad you are not alone in this._

"Do you think you would ever go back to Winterfell?"

Tears stung Beth's eyes. "No. Not now. Before all this, I had thought perhaps to go to White Harbour when I was older, or take service with another house. Make a life for myself somewhere. I don't know where. But I could not stay with him." _And I have enough pride not to want to become my King's mistress._

Although, she thought, as she rubbed the lotion into Sansa's ivory shoulders, just at this particular moment, it didn't seem like a bad thing that she would never have to look Bran in the eyes again.

"I'm sorry," Sansa said. "It is no easy thing." She was silent for a long moment. "Do you think that you could be happy in the Vale?" she asked. "There are followers of the Old Gods there. The Royces of Runestone, amongst others. Do you think … If I was to go to the Vale, would you accompany me?"

There was something in her voice that Beth misliked. "Why the Vale?" Her hands slowed.

"Petyr Baelish," Sansa said. "He would shelter me, if I asked. I have a mind to ask."

Beth shivered. Even in the north, she had heard the name of Petyr Baelish, Lord of Harrenhal, Lord of the Riverlands, Lord Protector of the Vale. He had more power than the king himself, some said. Certainly he had more wealth. It was said that Harrenhal was being rebuilt to be a rival to the Red Keep, that when it was complete the court there would be more lavish than Stannis's own. _If anyone could defy the King and the Lannisters, it would be Lord Petyr Baelish_. Beth thought to ask why he would help Sansa, but she could guess at the answer to that question.

"You must not give up hope," Beth urged. She had worked her way down the curve of Sansa's back, into the small of her waist. She put a hand on the Princess's hip, but hesitated to go lower.

"I don't want to hurt you." She hesitated. "Perhaps if I chilled the lotion in the snow." And put it … well. _Let's not think about that._

 _This is all much more complicated than I had ever expected my life to be._

Beth went to the window. There was snow on the sill, she thought. It took work, but the clasp of the shutters finally gave under her fingers. A blast of cold air hit Beth's face. The air of the north.

There was a rustle of fabric and a creak of the bed behind her.

"Nobody else is going to help me, Beth." Sansa's voice was muffled. _She's crying again, or she is afraid she is going to_. "Why would they?"

"Jon-"

"Jon is not coming." Sansa said. "He's not coming! He's locked up at Winterfell, a prisoner, and even if he wasn't …" she paused, and her voice softened. "I used him. He got hurt."

Beth cast about for something comforting to say. "Maybe he didn't mind being used?" _That sounded bad._ "I mean …"

Sansa made a sound, and Beth realized she was laughing. It was a gentle laugh, sad and a bit rueful. "Well, he didn't complain. But-"

"Shh." Beth knew she shouldn't interrupt her lady, but …. She looked out to the north, in the dark of the night. For a moment, it felt like the whole world was still. She felt the wind on her cheeks, and for a moment she imagined the touch of a softer hand. _Bran._

And then she felt it in her bones, a crack that seemed to come from the very stones and air of the north. Something breaking. Chains, the breaking of chains. Beth gasped.

"Did you feel it? Did you?" Beth felt her heart swell with excitement. She slammed the shutters closed. "Help is coming. The Gods have answered my prayers. We just have to keep the faith. Don't give up hope, my lady!"

Sansa's face was skeptical. "Well, 'help' will miss us if it is looking on the Kingsroad. We will be going east in a few hours, and with the roads frozen hard we won't leave much of a trail."

 _She doesn't believe. But I have belief enough for us both._ "We need to leave a message," Beth said. She cast about the room for something to write with - anything. There was no ink or pen. _A charred stick from the fire? But it might wash away._

Then her eyes fell on her bag. _My embroidery kit._ She fished it out quickly. Among her threads was a spool of crimson.

 _I can stitch a message._

"You're mad, Beth, you do know that," Sansa said. But her face was lighter, as if she drew comfort from Beth's certainty.

"Maybe," Beth said fiercely. "But I just need a piece of fabric. Something recognizable as yours. Something small, if possible.."

Sansa shifted onto her side. She crooked a smile. She reached down and wiggled.

 _Is she …? Oh._

Sansa slid the smallclothes down her narrow hips. She stretched her legs up towards the ceiling, and pulled them up and over her heels. "Will these do?" she asked, holding them out.

 _My goodness._

 _Right._

 _Very well._

It was the work of less than an hour.

When they were called for in the morning, Beth was able to leave the scrap of silk across the mattress, the words neatly stitched for their pursuer to see in defiant red letters.

 _White Harbour._


	16. Chapter 16

As they had predicted, Sansa and Beth were roused to go in the early hours when the sky was pitch black and the snow hard and crunchy underfoot. It was cold, bitterly cold, that cold that left any exposed skin feeling like it had been plunged into ice water. A north wind was blowing hard and tiny snow crystals were a fine painful horizontal bombardment. Sansa found a space where she could lie down on the bench seat with her head in Beth's lap. It was cold, and knowing she was going further from her home with every hour made it colder still.

It felt like everything on Sansa's body hurt, and her buttocks and thighs hurt most of all. The movement of the sleigh was not so bad, so long as they were on level ground, but soon they started the descent into the valley and the rocking and jolting seemed to hit every sore spot on her body. She gritted her teeth and burrowed deeper into the furs. The descent seemed to take hours, as the sky slowly lightened above them.

Finally, they made it down the slope, and the road was better. It ran by the river, the path to White Harbour, and it was well worn. They began to make good time. _Good for the Lannisters,_ Sansa thought. _Not good for me._ Every mile took her closer to their destination, and the ships that would take her away from her home forever.

 _And there is nothing I can do_. _Nothing. I'm being carried off like a porcelain doll._

The sky was as white as the ground, and the wind whipped the snow all about them. What trees they passed were leafless and grey. It felt like they were moving through a long colourless tunnel.

At first the pain was less, with the jostling of the descent behind them, but it turned into a long slow ache as muscles hardened from being stuck in a single position. At one of the breaks, the men passed a skin of wine around. Wine was all there was - the Lannister's had taken no drink from Winterfell, and there had been no time to make small beer or find clean water at Castle Cerwyn. Sansa found that the wine lessened the pain, and she drank more of the skin than she might have otherwise.

It was noon, but a weak, dim noon, when they finally stopped.

"Is the Lady finding the travel too strenuous? With the early start, we are planning to stop in a couple of hours to camp."

Sansa cracked an eye open at the sound of Ser Patrick's voice. He and Addam were standing side by side, but there was a distance between them.

 _They are still at odds_ , she thought. _Good._ Not that she knew what use to make of it, with only Beth to help her.

"Were you planning to give us a choice about continuing, if the answer was no?" Beth's voice was tart, and both men winced. "My lady is in pain," Beth continued, her voice was softer, reproachful.

Sansa had to force herself not to smile. _Make them twist, Beth._

Addam reached into his belt pouch and produced a stoppered vial. "We have been giving this to the wounded for pain," he said. "It is-"

Sansa rolled up, fast, and snatched the vial from his hand. She popped the stopper off with her thumbnail and tipped the contents down her throat.

"-very strong," Addam finished. He looked at her and sighed, his face resigned.

Sansa laid back down and closed her eyes. "I didn't have any plans," she said into the air. She pulled the furs over her head. After a moment, she heard the sound of two sets of booted feet making a retreat. Soon they were on their way again.

She barely noticed the effects of the potion starting to creep in. At first it was simply a lessening of the pain. The furs felt warmer, Beth's lap more comfortable. Her anger and fear began to recede. She found herself dwelling on those brief stolen moments in the Sept with Jon. A smile touched her lips.

"Fucking is nice," she told Beth. "I like fucking."

Her companion blinked, then giggled.

"Jon had a nice ass. Has a nice ass, I mean. I am never going to see it again." She gestured with her hands, cupping, and flexing her fingers. Then she sighed. "Poor Jon. I never meant to hurt him."

One of the men - a free rider - came alongside them. Sansa popped up. Moving seemed much easier now.

"Hello," she said. She smiled at him. "I'm Sansa. What's your name?"

"Mervin, Milady."

"Mervin. Very well. Where are you from, Mervin?"

"I hale from the Feastfire peninsula near Kayce." The man looked like he was trying not to laugh.

"Nice to meet you. Did you know that I screwed someone the night before you arrived?"

"Yes, we all know that. Milady."

"Good." She sat back in satisfaction. "If you meet anyone who does not, be sure to tell them!" she called after him.

The man trotted on. Sansa drank more wine.

This was boring, she decided. Sansa levered herself up until she was half hanging over the top of the sleigh. Perhaps there was somebody to talk to up there. She could feel Beth firmly holding onto the back of her dress.

Someone wrapped in a cloak was leading the horses pulling the sleigh, and she could see the shape of riders up ahead.

"Hello? Hello! Is anybody there? We're bored."

Nobody turned around. One man pulled his cloak tighter about himself.

"Hel-lo?" she sang out into the grey wasteland. When there was no response, she carefully scraped the snow off the decorative edging. There was a good amount, she found.

Beth spoke from behind. "Sansa, what are you doing?"

"Shh." Sansa whispered back. "I have a plan. It is a very secret, stealthy plan. Clean hands. They won't know it is me."

It took quite some time to shape the snow - it kept coming up lopsided. Finally, after careful concentration, she managed to make a couple of round snowballs.

She weighed on in her hand, then hurled it at the back of the head of one of the riders. It hit the shoulder of the man next to him. Sansa decided that was where she had been aiming. As they both turned, she ducked down in the sleigh.

"We aren't here," she told Beth.

There was a long pause. Sansa slowly peeked up over the edge of the sleigh.

The two men were looking back at her.

She ducked down again.

After a few minutes, she popped back up. The men had their backs to her again. She threw another ball. This one hit her original target in the back of the head. Then she managed to get the other man's horse in the rump, hard. It sheid. She could hear the man swearing as he reined it in. Sansa beamed.

"I need some more snow," she said.

Beth looked at her, then shrugged, and leaned out of the side of the sleigh to catch some snow in the fold of their cloak. Soon they had a nice pile of snowballs - Beth's being noticeably more numerous and better made than Sansa's.

"I'm so glad you are here, Beth," Sansa told her. "You are a nice girl. I love you." She frowned, thinking very carefully about what she wanted to say. "I just think you take things too seriously."

She chewed on her lip. It was hard to formulate her thoughts, but this was important, so, so important. She grasped Beth's shoulder for emphasis. "And when Sansa Stark of Winterfell tells you that you worry too much and should try to relax, then you have a serious," she squeezed, "a serious problem! I mean it. Look at me. I'm a mess."

Beth nodded solemnly. "I will remember that."

"You will?"

"Yes."

"Good!"

Beth nodded again. "I'm not disagreeing with that. But Sansa," she said, gently. "Right now, and here, with these people, we need to gut them and bury them in unmarked graves. Can we do that first, and I worry about taking this less seriously after?"

"I see your point." Sansa said. She sighed, took a drink of wine, and groped for another snowball.

There was movement in the periphery of her vision. She slowly turned her head. Addam Marbrand had brought his horse alongside the sleigh.

"Not even a marker on the graves?" he asked Beth, his tone mild.

"Not even," Beth replied.

 _He is a very good looking man,_ Sansa could not help but think. _It is a pity he didn't take me up on my offer. Maybe I should fuck him anyway, just to create chaos. Did I say that out loud? No, they aren't looking at me._

 _I don't even want to fuck him under those circumstances,_ she thought glumly. _I mean, I do, but …_

"Lady Sansa?"

She focused her eyes on him.

"We should stop soon. I sent men ahead to start the fires and prepare a tent for you. I'm sorry for your discomfort."

Sansa looked at him. She felt like she was very far away, watching it all through a spy glass, as she brought up a double-handful of snowballs and smashed them into his Lannister face.

He spat, and slowly wiped his face of the snow and ice.

"Fuck you," Sansa enunciated carefully. "I mean, I offered too, but .." _getting off track_

 _Sandra. Sansa. My name is Sansa._

 _Everything is spinning._

"But you didn't want to. Fuck me. So if you don't like this, why don't you send for the Septa so you can watch her paddle my ass some more?" She glared at him. "Pervert," she tossed in, for good measure.

Addam coughed again and his cheeks reddened. He seemed at a loss.

"Don't you have somewhere else to be?" Sansa asked. _Go away._ Why was he here again? Oh, yes. "We will stop throwing the snowballs. For now."

He nodded briskly, seeming to accept that this was going to be the best he was going to get out of the conversation, and spurred his horse into a trot.

Sansa slumped back. _What is the point of stupid snowballs? Stupid Sansa. Getting hauled off like a goose, all trussed up for dinner. Why did I tell Beth I wouldn't ask Petyr for help? Petyr is the only one who will help me. I gave that away for nothing. Nobody is coming. Not for the stupid goose._

Distantly, she became aware of voices raised in alarm. Shouting. Getting closer. Sansa pushed herself up and blinked around at the world of white. It seemed less bland now - there were bright spots in front of her eyes. Her sled was pulling to a halt. There were horses all around her. Men talking. Shouting.

Beth jumped down, fleet and graceful, and she was gone. Sansa followed, awkwardly. She fell to her knees out of the sleigh. Nobody came to give her a hand up, so she struggled to her feet herself. _A big fat goose._

They were in an area sheltered from the wind by a rocky outcropping. It was a quiet, peaceful place where the snow was lighter. A tents was set up. Fires was burning brightly. And two dead men in Lannister colours were impaled on stakes in the center of the camp. Their blood was still wet. A scrap of pale fabric was stuffed into the mouth of one of them.

Addam walked forward. The group fell silent. He pulled the cloth free and held it up.

Smallclothes decorated with ribbon, and embroidered with flowers, with a word stitched in red thread. My smallclothes. … We left them in Castle Cerwyn to show which way we went …

"He's here," she burst out, and began to laugh. "Jon's here. He's coming for me. He's going to kill you all."

She barely felt her knees buckle under her, and the sides of her vision went dark. Someone caught her with strong arms and eased her to the ground as it all went dark.


	17. Chapter 17

The Lannister party slept that night in four large tents pitched on the site where Jon had killed the advance party. It had been late, and the temperature was dropping. There had probably been no time to find another place. Not that it would have made a difference. Jon did not dare come too close to the camp - a watch was set in shifts all through the night, and there were well over forty healthy fighters there, not counting the wounded, some servants, and the women. But he had seen Sansa carried into the tent, her hair spilling out of the blanket she was wrapped in, and Beth a silent shadow at her side.

That night, as the cold wind howled around the little camp, he watched and waited.

He heard the men complaining of broken straps, spoiled food, cracked water bottles. It seemed that they had been hit by every misfortune that could befall a travelling party. A smiled crossed Jon's lips at that, but it faded soon enough.

They moved on early the next morning. He kept pace with them as they travelled, staying well out of the sight-lines of the scouts. The snow was falling thicker and heavier, and he was glad he knew their destination in case their tracks were buried. This was a storm that could swallow hundreds of men and they would not be found until the Melt.

There was no rough camp that night, nor an abandoned castle like Cerwyn. They stopped at a small fortified keep near the river. This one was inhabited by a family and a few retainers and servants who had managed to hang on in their home through the winter. A cluster of outbuildings stood about the walls. As the light faded, Jon hid in a clearing nearby and watched. Half an hour after the sleighs had vanished through the gates, he patience was rewarded.

He saw the small, well-wrapped figure of Beth Cassels heading to the washhouse with a bundle of linens, one of the silent maids with her. She paused just before entering the building and looked for a moment in the direction of his hiding place. He hunkered down, although he was sure he was well concealed. After a moment, she went into the hut. A few minutes later, the septa and the other maid appeared, supervised the unloading of a sleigh from which more linens were extracted and taken into the wash-house. He waited.

The red haired knight appeared later with two of his companions and the lord of of this little keep: an old man, stooped and grey. The four of them stood for some time

But there was a light in the window of the highest room in the keep. A secure room. He stared at it. Too dim to be a fire. It must be a single candle or a lantern. A single, dim source of light for one set of eyes.

Sansa.

The wall below her window was sheer vertical, but Jon had climbed the Wall itself in another life. He looked at it as the light faded. He could do this.

Maybe.

 _I may not be able to die, but I can probably break every bone in my body if I fall._

There were edges and rough points in the stone. He climbed slowly, moving only one hand or foot at a time, and slowly, slowly, he edged up. After what felt like hours, but was probably only minutes, he found himself a few feet below the window.

There were voices below. Men. If they came around the wall, they would see him.

With a gasp, he jumped up. His hands caught the edge of the window sill, slipped, and for a moment he was uncertain if they would hold.

He dug in his fingers. With a grunt of effort, he pulled himself up until he could force his shoulders through the narrow opening. He tumbled down onto the stone floor of the chamber with a shock that forced the breath from his body.

" _Jon!"_

He slowly raised his eyes.

There was, as he thought, just a single candle by the bed to light the room. It was a tiny chamber, cold, dark, poorly furnished, but what it held …

Sansa was sitting up in the bed, the light shining on the auburn hair tumbling around her face, her fair skin, her slightly parted rosy lips. She was clad in a nightgown, and as his eyes were drawn downward, he could see the curve of her bosom, her erect nipples pushing against the thin fabric. Her breath steamed in the cold air.

"Jon" she whispered again, quietly, urgently. "There is a guard on the door." She put her hands to her lips, signalling quiet.

He bared his teeth, taking in the sight of her, the sound, _the smell_ … He felt his breath catch and a sudden rush of warm blood to his groin.

"We won't be going out the door," he whispered. He pulled up his shirt to show the length of rope around his waist. "We are going out the way I came in."

Sansa looked at him. "That's your plan," she said quietly, but flatly. "I go down there," she looked at the window, looked back at the rope. "On that."

"The Wildlings used to take stolen women over the Wall for years," Jon said. The theory of how it was done had been explained to him.

"Jon."

He looked around for an anchor point. The bed was heavy … not ideal, but it would do.

"... Jon."

He started to unwind the rope.

" _Jon,"_ she hissed. She reached out with one hand and touched him on the shoulder. She had to bend and stretch to do it, and her nightgown gaped, showing the curves of her breasts, the smooth skin of her torso below …

" _Damnit, Jon!"_ she said, and brought her other arm up in a move that ended in a swift jerk.

He tore his eyes away from her body, and looked. A thick leather and iron cuff encircled her slender wrist. It was attached to a chain, a chain of castle-forged steel with thick links that ended in a solid anchor to the bed frame.

"Sheepfuckers," he said.

He tested the weight and the fastenings.

"I can't get you out of this. Not without making a lot of noise." He swore, too loud.

"Shh," she said, the light glimmering off water in the corner of her own eyes. "I don't want you hurt. And there is Beth to think of, too. I'm sorry, Jon, so sorry. I never meant …" she took a breath. "You have to leave me here. You have to go now. They will be back soon." She took another breath, so beautiful it made his heart ache, so loving, so strong. "You have to leave me and go. There will be other chances."

He kissed her hard, so hard it must have hurt, but she returned his passion. They clung to each other in the dark, skin against skin, sweat mingling.

"What if there is no other chance?" he said. "What will you do?" He shifted, pushing her back onto the bed. She twisted, forced to keep one hand above her head by that cursed cuff. "Do you plan to fuck that ginger knight? Hm?" He leaned close to whisper in her ear. "He wants to fuck you."

She blinked, taken by surprise. "I …" she took a breath, and her chin rose defiantly. "So what if I did? Maybe I will ...f …fu … lay with him. Or with some lord in White Harbour."

"Would you?" he mused. With a swift move, he pulled the lacings of her nightgown apart, exposing her bare breasts. He cupped one, giving the nipple a gentle pinch. "Is that what you would do?" he mused, enjoying the flush that rose in her cheeks at his skepticism.

"Yes. I would."

She was defiant, stubborn, and utterly sweet, like a child waving a stolen knife from the kitchen that she had no idea how to use, but that could still cut …

"Or with King Stannis himself … why are you laughing?" she said, suddenly indignant. "This isn't funny."

He had to bury his face between her breasts to muffle the sounds of his amusement. He breathed in, loving the nutty smell of them. "I'm sorry, Sansa. But I've met Stannis Baratheon." He ran his hands over the curves of her tits.

She tensed, one hand still caught over her head, then relaxed. "Cersei Lannister said that she'd have a better chance of seducing Stannis's horse."

"Mm," Jon said. He moved his head to nuzzle at her breast.

"Jon … what are you doing?" she whispered.

"What do you think?"

She put her free hand on his forehead and pushed him firmly away. "No."

"I'll take you here, under their noses." His breath quickened at the thought of it. Thrusting into her, her long legs wrapping around him, her muffling the sounds of her pleasure in his shoulder ...

There was the sound of footsteps in the hall, and they both froze. The sound faded, left them alone. Or so it seemed.

 _There is a guard in the hall._

"Would you?" she whispered. "Would you have me like this, tethered?" She pulled her wrist against the cuff. It clinked, a hard cruel sound. "Is that what you want?" she demanded.

He pulled back onto his knees, a jangle of anger and desire. He looked from her body to the cuff, and felt the lust run out of him, replaced by anger, anger that they would do this to her, his love, his mate, his wolf-girl, his Sansa.

"No," he told her. "I mean … I always want you. But not if you don't want me."

"Free me," she told him, her eyes bright. "Set me free, and I will be yours."

"I'll fight them all. Paint your body with their blood."

There was another sound in the hall. The footsteps were coming back.

"No," she said. "No. I would not have you risk yourself. And there is Beth, too. No. Not now."

He let out a long slow exhale of frustration, breathed out his rage against the soft flesh of her body. But he could not deny her reasoning.

With hurrying fingers, he pulled the laces of her nightgown closed over her breasts. Her cheeks were flushed, lips parted. He could do nothing about that. Slowly, he separated from her. She moaned, and her hips twitched towards him in longing, but she said nothing of desire. All she said was "go." She wet her lips. "Go. Be safe. Take no unnecessary risks."

He was at the window frame when she spoke again. There was fire in her eyes.

"And Jon?"

He waited.

"Come for me if you can." She lowered her eyes, and her lips quirked into smile. "Stannis Baratheon's horse would be ever so grateful," she added.

And then there were sounds in the hall again, and he barely had time to clear the window before the door opened.

It was darker on the way down than it had been on the way up, and Jon had to give his full attention to his hand and footholds. He was near to the bottom of the wall when he heard voices.

 _If they come too close, they may see my footprints in the snow._

He dropped down, landing lightly, and moved quickly to find a place in the shadows. He could hear the crunch of boots on snow. Two sets of boots. He slid a knife from his belt.

They passed him, and he was on them from behind. He caught one man by the hair, pulled his head back to expose his neck, and slashed his neck open. He dropped the man, dead, he was already dead, Jon knew that without looking, and turned on the other with the wet knife slipping his hand.

The man should have cried out - he had the time. But he was frozen. He gaped at Jon, mouth and eyes wide.

There was a distant small part of Jon that hated himself, an echo of the boy he had once been, but his body drove on, bringing the knife down into the hollow at the base of the man's throat and thrusting it home with a dull plop. The man went down.

Jon knelt in the snow over the two bodies, his hands stained red with blood. It was cold.

 _Two less._


End file.
